


Galathean Omens

by Elphen



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: A lot - Freeform, Alternate Universe, Angel Aziraphale, Angst, BAMF Aziraphale (Good Omens), Caring Aziraphale (Good Omens), Caring Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley argues with himself, Crowley has a one-night-stand, Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), Crowley tries to cope, Dreams, Gabriel is a bastard, Heartbreak, Human AU, Human Crowley (Good Omens), Inspired by Pygmalion and Galatea (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), Longing, M/M, Miscommunication, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pining, Pining Crowley, Rating May Change, Sculptor Crowley, Self-Esteem Issues, Separation, Sort Of, Statue Aziraphale, Vague Memories, Who Am I Kidding?, archangel gabriel (good omens) - Freeform, crushing on a statue, doing what you think is best for the other, emotional self-sacrifice, former demon Crowley, loosely, slight angst, statue coming to life, tag help please, unintended pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-11
Updated: 2020-10-26
Packaged: 2020-12-09 10:04:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 76,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20993006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elphen/pseuds/Elphen
Summary: Loose Pygmalion AU - oh and human AU, too.Crowley is a succesful sculptor in London whose statues are renowned for their quality and their stunning realism, so that one could swear they're going to come to life any moment. One day, Gabriel walks into his workshop and 'commissions' (ie demands) a different kind of statue from him, one which is more soft and cherubic. Well, putto-like, in any case. Crowley refuses but then ends up fascinated by the rough sketch left by the berk. It seems oddly familiar and soon, he finds himself entranced by what he's sculpting, talking to it and imbuing it with personality and eventually a name.What will happen, though, when 'Aziraphale' comes to life? What will Crowley do about Gabriel who still expects a statue?





	1. A commission from Gabriel

**Author's Note:**

> Anyone have a better title than this? Please?  
So...I never thought I'd do a human AU of these two but then I saw a prompt on Tumblr from ineffableprompts (nr. 22 if you want to look it up) and it wouldn't leave my head. And so I ended up working on it, somebody help me.  
Also, still hate summaries, apologies if it's no good.

He was good at his job.

No, that was a lie. He was _exceptional _at his job. What point was there to try and be shy about it, be coy when not only he but at the very least the entire city agreed?

That they agreed there could be no question of. One only had to look at the thickness of his order book and the number in black stated on his bank account to be able to ascertain that.

It might be considered old-fashioned, really, still working away in marble to create various sculptures that owed more to antiquity than post-modernism. Might even be considered terribly outmoded and ridiculous but he didn’t care and not exclusively because it made him money regardless.

In fact, he found that after those first few commissions, when he’d been quite surprised and overwhelmed by the amount of money that had ticked into his account, that he didn’t pay it much attention.

Not because he was too good for money or only did it for the artistry or some such claptrap. He’d merely found that he could, unless he completely changed his lifestyle and that was hardly about to happen at this point in his life, never hope to spend all that money and so it had just become a thing. The safety net for someone who’d gotten so proficient at tightrope walking over years of hard work and practice that they could do it blindfolded and backwards.

But the money did allow him to actually purchase the materials needed easily and without starving himself for a month or three, which in turn made it possible to carve what he, or more importantly the client, wanted out of the block of marble. That, along with the quality of the product he turned out, ensured he had happy customers almost all the time – if anyone told you there would come a point where you never had unsatisfied customers again, they were out to sell you something for that extra bit of certainty – which in turn brought him more money.

However, he still liked the job even if he didn’t care much for most of the customers one way or the other. His reasoning was that as long as he got to work on his sculptures, and occasionally on the more interesting projects, too, it didn’t matter much.

He was happy as he was, on his own, working his craft.

He was working in his studio workshop on the finishing touches of one statue one afternoon when he heard the front door open. Probably he shouldn’t have been able to hear it, with how far away he was from the main entrance, but despite the almost constant low-grade cacophony of the various chisels against the stone, his hearing was and had always been surprisingly good.

Right now, he was only using his riffler for the last few details before he moved onto the sandpaper and so it was even easier to hear the bell he’d placed for the same purpose.

He groaned inwardly, not particularly interested at the moment to have a client come bother him on when something was done. Outwardly, though, he continued working, his expression not changing one iota.

Hello!” someone called, not anyone he recognised, evidently as soon as they’d gotten through the door, making up for the distance with volume. At least, they were trying, which mainly meant that they were shouting rather loudly.

“Hello? Where are you?”

Not even the curtesy to ask the pointless question of whether there was anyone here or not, never mind respect the fact that it was late enough that you didn’t come calling without a previously established appointment if you even expected someone to still be working. That he had a sign up saying ‘closed’ didn’t factor in; the kind of people who would ignore the social conventions of how to behave as a customer didn’t go around reading _signs. _Signs were for lesser beings.

Crowley decided to remain where he was, working away and ignoring the intruder. It wasn’t as though he exactly needed the custom – it wasn’t hyperbole that his orderbook was full – and if that greeting was anything to go by, well…

There was silence after that and, foolishly, the ginger thought that the potential customer would’ve gotten the message and buggered back out.

Of course, he wasn’t going to be that lucky.

All too soon, the intruder located him, their footsteps surprisingly quiet for someone of a stature that suited their height far better than Crowley’s lanky frame as they came to stand only a little distance behind the sculptor.

“Ah. There you are,” he said, and it was definitely a man, even though Crowley didn’t turn around to look at him. The tone of voice made it sound as though he was a good-natured but rather dim and recalcitrant child who’d run away despite all the kind warnings of his guardians.

It immediately managed to set Crowley’s teeth on edge, if what had happened before hadn’t been enough, and it took a real effort not to hiss at the man to get out of his workshop right this instant. More importantly, it was all he could do not to accidentally let his file slip and ruin so many hours of delicate work.

Instead, he managed to get out an at least, he thought, a reasonably well-mannered response of, “Yes. Can I help you…sir?”

The pause before ‘sir’ was slight enough that most people wouldn’t notice and certainly not someone like this.

He was proven right when the intruder – he was not a customer or client and he never would be, not if Crowley had anything to say about it – ploughed right on through.

The man moved to place himself so that he wasn’t just in Crowley’s line of vision but made it virtually impossible to continue working without damaging _something _on the sculpture and that was not an option.

When, after taking his file away to be on the safe side, he looked up, the expression on the man’s face suggested quite clearly that he was well aware of that and that he didn’t give a fuck.

He was what was important, not Crowley’s work.

The ginger felt something in his jaw tighten and sour simultaneously at that and the man had barely spoken a word to him yet.

“Yes, you can. Otherwise, I would hardly bother calling, would I?” the man said, further emphasising his apparent superiority in both choice of words and tone of voice.

“No. I would hope not.” It ought to have been muttered under his breath, to make sure the other wouldn’t catch it, but Crowley wasn’t feeling particularly charitable towards the man.

Not that it really mattered since the remark or at least the implications thereof seemed to pass right over his head, despite his height.

“Right. So, I’ve heard you do – “Please_ don’t let him say ‘sculptures’_ – “exceptional work on sculptures.”

Well, slightly better. That was, the evidence that he did sculptures and good ones at that was bloody well all around them, not to mention what he’d been doing before the arsehat interrupted, and so it was still something that deserved cushion full of needling. Yes, so it wasn’t crowded but there were plenty of sculptures in various materials and various stages of completion. He preferred working with marble, despite its limitations and difficulties, but he could turn his hand to pretty much anything that required sculpting. Except for digital, he’d never gotten the hang of that.

Point was, it was still an incredibly obvious and stupid observation and not much improved by being the evident opening to not just a conversation but a request for a commission.

A comment was on the tip of his tongue, but Crowley kept it there despite its acidity. He could always push the man out later, whether verbally or physically. He might be lanky but did work with stone and such all day, after all.

In any case, the man didn’t actually wait for an answer. “I want you to make me a sculpture. In that white stone. A good one.”

“Obviously.”

The man didn’t seem to have heard what he actually said. “Good. How soon can you have it done?”

That almost made Crowley blink and he couldn’t help his eyebrows making a bid for his hairline. Was the man – even he couldn’t bloody well be serious. He hadn’t even said yes – had in fact not said much of anything at all – and here the bastard was, expecting him to have automatically agreed to the commission, which he hadn’t even bothered explain the wishes for nor the budget. He even had the brass neck to sound impatient as to when it would be done.

Even if he hadn’t had a fair few commissions waiting, both around the workshop and in the orderbooks, there was no way he would work for this complete berk. Not the way he was being treated.

“You haven’t even told me what you want,” he said, his voice dropping in degrees to cool as he stared back at the other, “and I have plenty of commissions that I need to do.”

The man was undeterred. “Surely you can finish those quickly or do them later. Can’t be that difficult.”

His arms folded over his chest without his conscious say-so, though he couldn’t find it in him to be cross with them for it. He knew exactly how they felt.

“If you think that then I have no more to say to you,” and now his voice was decidedly chilly rather than cool. “Go away.”

The man looked at him as though he thought he’d heard a mouse growl, the face – one which they’d use in the old days to sell cigarettes or whiskey with, possibly both – growing even more punch-able.

“I don’t think you understand – “he began but Crowley cut him off. He might just have said that he had no more to say but if the twat wasn’t going to take a hint, then he could provide a two-by-four no problem.

“Don’t understand what exactly?” he snapped. “That you barge in despite the fact that it’s late, interrupt my work, completely disregard normal procedure in procuring a commission, think you can just tell me what to do without having the first bloody clue, and then on top of that have the bloody nerve to say my work’s something that can be done quickly and without difficulty? I understand that very well, thank you. So now, kindly piss off.”

He almost raised the riffler he was still holding but thought better of it and instead just turned away, stalking over to his desk.

“You will make this statue.” It was a statement, with a flatness and confidence that said the man believed it was the undisputable truth, which somehow made it worse.

Crowley’s mouth worked for a moment before he got it under his control. “No. I will not. Not for you. I do not need your commission and I will not make it.”

“Do you have any other useful skills?”

That made the ginger grip the edge of the desk for a moment.

“Are you seriously threatening me?” he asked, still refusing to turn around. His grin was audible, though, even if it was as humorous as a shark’s.

It wasn’t as though he had power or influence to counteract with if the bastard actually was capable of following through on that threat. Oh, he’d had wealthy clients and had worked on things that now adorned rather swanky places but that wasn’t the same thing. Not at all.

They wouldn’t come to his defence or aid should things go awry. Why would they? Most of them would probably not even recognise his face, much less his name. To them, he was a paid worker. An artist, too, obviously, but they hired him for a job and once that was done, both parties moved on.

To be honest, that was how he liked it. Glamour wasn’t exactly a sculptor’s lot, not these days and not compared to other forms of art and honestly, that suited him fine. Exhibitions happened but that was about it and most of the time he was allowed to get on with his work in peace.

It did mean, though, that he had nobody to help him if things went pear-shaped in a hurry or help him recover.

Just because the arse had correctly identified a weak point, however, did not mean that he was going to roll over and do his bidding like a good dog. It would be the smart move, certainly, but…well…

He turned back around slowly; grin faded but still there.

“Are you?” he repeated. He could say more but it was probably for the best if he didn’t, at least not before the man had replied.

The man who seemed incongruously at ease, even smiling. “Why on earth would I do that when you are going to do as I ask? Just a friendly inquiry. It might come in useful at some point.” The fact that the smile was rather insincere and only ever reached his mouth undermined his words, even if it was fitting for his behaviour so far.

It also brought the threat into a slightly starker relief.

“Why would I? And you haven’t asked, you’ve assumed and demanded. So even if I was initially going to, you’ve really managed to bugger that up well and good with your attitude and threats. I do not have to make your statue, nor do I have any intention to, whatever you threaten me with. Why is that so difficult to get through your skull?”

Something passed over the twat’s face at that, something dark and, quite frankly, rather terrifying, but it was gone before Crowley could properly see it, which might’ve been just as well.

His mouth spasmed, too, as though something distasteful had taken up residence in there. But instead of answering, he reached inside his coat pocket and pulled out an envelope that shouldn’t rightly have fitted in there. It wasn’t only far too long for it but far too thick.

He walked over to Crowley and it seemed his intention was to hand it directly to the ginger. As he moved it forward, however, he hesitated for a split second and moved it sideways with an air as though that had always been the plan, and Crowley would have to admit that it was quite convincing.

Once it had been placed, the man took a step back. He regarded Crowley for a moment from head to toe, the movement of his gaze slow and deliberate. At no point did he give any indication that he was or had been in a disadvantageous position or had had any trouble whatsoever.

That, in combination with the continued smile and the coldness in those almost purplish eyes – Crowley was certain that had to be the light playing tricks on him, though, because who the hell had purple eyes? – was quite unsettling, to be perfectly frank, which lent another facet as to why Crowley wanted him out of there.

It looked as though the man was now finally going to piss off and leave him alone, evidently having thought that he had indeed been victorious. Well, he had another thing coming but if it got him out of the workshop, then by all means, let him believe that he had.

But then he hesitated, and Crowley’s teeth ground together.

A square of paper was held up between two fingers then placed on top of the envelope without attempting to give it to Crowley.

The ginger then watched as the man walked back out, back straight and with that continued air of superiority about him.

Sighing, after having had to unclench his teeth, he went back to what he had been working on before the cockwaffle had decided to barge in. He checked on whether it had inadvertently suffered any damage from the incident but thankfully there didn’t seem to be any issue at all.

He didn’t even as much as peer at the contents of the envelope. There was no reason to. None whatsoever because he wasn’t going to accept the commission.

_And what will he do when he finds out that you haven’t? _asked an inner voice, quietly._ Scoff all you want, that wasn’t an idle threat._

And how would he know that? It might just be that the berk was a bully and nothing more, using scare-tactics to get what he wanted rather than actually working for a living. If he had had anything to threaten Crowley with, why be coy about it? Why back up when he didn’t immediately fold?

_He didn’t, though, did he? He adapted to the situation. You can’t say that he stopped being threatening after that._

No, he supposed not. Still, though, it seemed a little…over the top, to say the least, especially when you considered that this was sculpture. It was hardly going to be part of some sort of Kray twins operation, was it?

And what will you do if that’s exactly what it is?

Alright, fine. He could take a look at it. Later, though. This had to be finished in two days and he was already behind, thanks to cigarettes-bozo. Not just him, really, but there was no need to get bogged down in detail, was there?

It was very late by the time he…not so much finished as realised that to work any further on it tonight would only risk damaging the work he’d done so far. So, he put his files and sandpaper down, took a step back to look over it with a critical eye, came to the annoyed conclusion that said eye was too bleary to be critical and turned away.

As he walked towards the stairs leading up to the flat above – he’d firmly locked the front door the moment the berk had gone – he passed by his desk and saw the envelope and the business card on top. Sneering at it, he was prepared to bypass it completely. However, what he did was stop and pick both items up. He put the envelope back down almost immediately, though, and held the card up to for a closer look, curious despite himself.

The name on the card read ‘Gabriel A. Deakin’. Curiously, it didn’t say anything more. Not his job title or even his rank in whatever company he worked for. Which wasn’t present, either, now that he thought of it, not even on the back of it.

All there was, in flowing gold letters on expensive cream-coloured card stock, was the name, a phone number and what could only be a motto or slogan though it was a decidedly odd one, especially when there was no company or brand to excuse it with.

“Not even an email,” Crowley muttered aloud, his slight puzzlement evident in his voice. “Thought they gave those out with the birth certificates now.”

Gabriel, though…why did that name feel entirely apt for the man? A name shouldn’t be capable of having smug superiority stitched into its very core and yet, that was entirely how it felt. If you pictured someone named Gabriel, the feeling about them wasn’t likely to be far off from that. Perhaps the hair would be more golden, though.

He put the card back down on the desk, briefly considering chucking it directly into the bin or maybe locating his lighter, but then he decided against it. Just leaving it would be as effective; sooner or later, likely sooner, it would disappear on its own.

As he put it down, his hand brushed over the envelope again accidentally. Should he…?

No. There was nothing in there that could change his mind. He was not going to work for Gabriel Deakin under any circumstances.

Considering that, wasn’t it then perfectly safe for him to open it? It wasn’t going to sway him one way or the other so where was the harm in just a peek?

Was he actually trying to talk himself _into _looking? Tempting himself? Seriously?

Then he noticed his hand had begun moving without consulting the brain at all, sliding a finger underneath the flap in a way that opened it as it slid along. He meant to pull it back, he honestly did, but when he finally managed it, the envelope was fully opened.

Not that the papers slid out on their own or anything like that. The edges of them were now visible, however, which meant a more tangible tease of what was inside.

Why had he done that? Yeah, so part of him had been tempted to take a look, maybe have a good laugh over what the berk had for ideas but honestly, wouldn’t it make it harder on him to refuse?

_No. Why would it? Go on. Just a peek won’t hurt anybody. You can just chuck it afterwards, can’t you?_

It must’ve been his lack of sleep or perhaps just feeling particularly contrary and devil-may-care after everything – not helped by the fact that he had been frustratingly close to filing off part of an ear because of his momentary lack of focus. Whatever was the case, he picked the envelope up fully and pulled the papers out.

What he had expected to see, he wasn’t entirely sure. But he could say that this was more than likely not what he had in mind.

The thing that struck him most, though, wasn’t that it was not just a wall of text explaining what was wanted or even a series of photos of other sculptures that they wanted it to look sort of like, now, if he could just meld them all together in the way that they imagined in their head, that wouldn’t be difficult, would it?

Leaving that aside, what struck him most was that this, illustrated through both a few very rough sketches and some clear and detailed but not minutia-focused written descriptions, was something that a man such as Gabriel would want to commission.

Granted, it was very likely that the one actually doing the commission wasn’t him, for all the understated, evident expense of the suit he’d been wearing. But still, it was seriously incongruous compared to not only was the norm but what one would expect.

If he was being completely honest with himself, it was also a rather far cry from what he normally did. Hell, it was almost the complete opposite of what he made. Almost.

Perhaps that was why he kept staring at it. Why the rough sketch, barely more than the vaguest of guidelines, intrigued him and, together with the description he’d admittedly only just skimmed, drew him in and sparked something in his mind.

When he realised that it had, he almost threw the papers away but that was rather pointless; the idea wasn’t going to go away from that.

Instead, he slammed them down on his desk, unaware that he was hissing under his breath, a habit that he’d had when stressed or otherwise agitated since childhood. Not just a slight blow of air while talking, either, a full-blown, snake-imitating hiss and there was nothing he could do to control it, despite the numerous speech therapists his parents had sent him to over the years.

Was this – had this been the bastard’s tactic all along? Pique his curiosity enough that he’d take a look and then implant the idea?

No, how would he know that it would intrigue him? By all rights, if he wasn’t aware already, he should’ve been discouraged by stepping into the workshop and see so much evidence that what Crowley did was the complete opposite in terms of style and shape and…well, pretty much everything. There was no reason to assume that the sculptor wouldn’t dismiss it outright under those criteria.

It wasn’t something he could’ve picked up from other clients, either, because they didn’t know that that sort of shape actually appealed to Crowley, and not purely in a sculptural sense, either. Therefore, they couldn’t have passed it on.

But the coincidence otherwise was just a little bit…much. There was no way he could’ve known but the chance that he’d just happened to stumble into something that would intrigue him was small to say the least. Unless, of course, he’d gone around several different sculptors, not that there were a lot of them, and had made the same demand. Which would make more sense, he had to admit.

The indisputable fact of the matter was that it did intrigue Crowley, significantly so.

It would be something different. Something that – no! It wouldn’t be, because he was not doing it. End of. No matter how interesting and different it was.

He hadn’t accepted the demand, which hadn’t even had the decency to try and masquerade as a request, when he’d been told to or even threatened. He wasn’t going to allow intrigue concerning the desired shape of the statue to sway him, either. Not with that kind of berk.

Not with anyone, really, but especially not someone like Gabriel A. Deakin and whoever he was working for.

Angry with himself for giving into the temptation of curiosity in the first place, he shoved the papers back into the envelope, which he then dropped, not onto the desk but into the bin like he should’ve done from the start.

Then he stalked up the stairs, his anger lending him a bit more energy despite his tiredness, and, foregoing something to eat – if he didn’t have time to savour it, he really didn’t see the point in meals, which meant he often ended up skipping them – went straight to bed.

A good night’s sleep was what he needed. To be mentally and physically ready for the final stretch needed to have the statue finished to a proper standard he could let leave the workshop not to mention to purge his mind of this whole ordeal.

No thoughts of smug bastards and statues of a putto that had been allowed to grow up. Not at all.

So he thought very firmly as he crept under the covers.

He meant it, too.

Not that it mattered much.


	2. Dreams and conceptions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley has a strange dream that is simultaneously vague and feels incredibly real. In it, he sees someone he thinks he recognises, someone who he can't see clearly but makes his heart ache.  
Once the image has lodged itself, it refuses to go away as does the ache. But what does that have to do with the statue?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to the people who have left such kind and encouraging feedback on this. You seriously helped.

His dreams had other ideas.

It wasn’t something that happened to him often. Usually his dreams were jumbled messes of memory snippets, complete fabrications and the smudge, smoke and mirrors that tied them together as loosely as was only possible, while still making ‘sense’, within dreams.

This one, however, was quite a lot more…vivid, he supposed, not to mention far more structured. Which wasn’t that huge an achievement, he would have to admit.

But he was sitting in a garden, the luscious verdant greens around him almost encasing him where he stood or rather sat. Despite that, the amount of light, though fairly hazy, filtering down to him was plentiful and that special type of golden that makes it appear as though you’re peering through honey or light, yellow and transparent amber.

It rendered everything pleasant and lovely and yet…profoundly melancholic in a way that he couldn’t ever remember feeling before. As though he had lost something a long time ago, something that was incredible and wonderful beyond measure, almost integral to his being, and yet he had no active recollection of it. Nor had he knowledge of how he’d lost it or knew any way of retrieving what he’d been robbed of.

All he knew was that to be there, now, felt simultaneously like the sweetest of blessings and the cruellest of jokes.

That feeling wasn’t lessened when he, while slowly looking around this flourishing oasis, enjoying the plants, thought he spotted a figure up ahead. It was quite far ahead of him and as such, he should be able to see no more than the silhouette of it, if even that. Accounting for dream distance and accompanying logic, he should either be closer to it and still have it be in silhouette or he should see details he oughtn’t be able to.

It was incredibly unreasonable of his dream to suddenly employ even a modicum of actual logic like that, especially without giving him any prior indication or warning.

He walked towards the figure whereupon the logic evaporated as quickly as it had appeared; he ought to be getting closer and while he could begin to make out a few more details as he walked and seemed to make headway for a bit, that soon gave way to a seeming treadmill of a walk that kept him just out of reach of any clear details.

There was the silhouette, though, and that was of a person of, by his admittedly uncertain estimation, average height and rather a soft, rounded shape. By that same estimation, he would say that it was a male but what he based that on, he couldn’t have said.

In fact, what he thought he saw was not that far from what he’d envisioned based on the description and the rough sketch he’d been given, actually, though he didn’t think about that while in the dream.

More than that, as he began to make out some details, such as the soft, short hair that he felt definite was blond and curly, the sense of melancholy grew inside of him as well as around him, and he could’ve sworn everything got a tad darker in its golden hues.

The melancholy brought not just a heaviness of his heart but a definite sense that the figure in front of him was someone that he knew, as well. Someone who was tied to that very melancholy and sense of loss.

A name was on the tip of his tongue, one that he knew without being able to say how or wherefrom, and he opened his mouth to call it, only no sound would come.

He tried again but though he could feel his throat working, enough to indicate it should be a scream no sound would come.

But perhaps he just couldn’t hear it; it seemed as though something must’ve gotten through because the figure started like they had indeed heard something. He couldn’t make out any distinguishing facial features, just a general and rather appealing shape, but he thought he saw the lips move, forming around a word. Perhaps a name?

He tried again, hoping that he was being heard and that what he said was the name he couldn’t remember or bring into his mind and not just a string of noises.

It might be the melancholy, the yearning sorrow that clawed at him spurring him on. He didn’t know. All he knew was that it was imperative for the other not just to hear him but to meet him. To close that gap between them that only seemed to grow wider and longer the more he struggled.

But he would persevere. Whatever it would take, he would make it.

He reached out a hand, in the vain but firm belief that it would somehow assist him, prove the key to bridging that gap and reach the other.

It turned out he was right. For a moment. A long and hope-filled one but still only a moment.

Then, just as his fingers was about to touch a shoulder with their very tips, he thought he heard a thrumming whoosh, as if someone had opened a thick door to a deep cellar full of stringed instruments.

He barely got a chance to register that before something closed around him, something white and soft and suffocating, which practically engulfed him. More worryingly, to him, it also dragged him backwards, the almost-grasp slipping from him even though he stretched and writhed to escape. To reach.

The figure he’d been trying to reach finally turned around and he thought he saw a face then, vivid and clear in a way that the rest of the surrounding dream was not.

It was a face he knew. Did he? Or was he just a construct of other faces? No, he was. He knew him. The face went with the name and both tore and ripped at his heart even as they also filled him with peace.

Whatever the case, he only managed to get a glimpse before the whiteness closed entirely around him, obscuring his view completely. He tried to shout, to scream, to rip it away but his arms were sluggish and unresponsive, and his throat still produced no sound. The whiteness pressed closer and closer, starting to suffocate him as his footing slipped on the sudden nothing beneath him.

He began to fall, the whiteness turning black around him as his scream finally tore through the oppressive silence, burning through and out of him like dark fire.

* * *

That scream carried with him into his waking, slamming bolt upright in his bed, one hand digging into the duvet and the sheets beneath them.

The other, however, was stretched out, straining as it tried to reach…well, empty air here in the waking world. There was no figure before him or even beside him, ready to comfort him, calm his raging heart and panting breath and bring him back down from the nightmare he’d just suffered through.

Nightmare? Was it really a nightmare?

Well, yes, obviously it was. He’d woken up screaming, hadn’t he? His heart was pounding, his throat felt dry and somehow stuffed with cotton wool and there was an ache in his chest.

But why was the overwhelming feeling he was left with – whatever images had remained in his mind when he had just opened his eyes had distorted and faded into vague sensations at most the moment he’d focused on them, as was the wont of dream images – not terror or fear?

Yes, his heart was galloping. Yes, he’d been screaming. Those were both very good ticks in the ‘yes’ box. However, the feeling he was left with, one that, as far as he could tell, had carried over from the dream, was a much more mixed one; one that carried melancholy and loss, as well as with regret and longing.

Why? What exactly had managed that? He wasn’t a stranger to nightmares but something like this was a new one on him and he didn’t know how to deal with it.

He tried to focus on what the dream had been about but all that was left were the feelings.

No, wait. Not quite all.

He remembered…it was slipping through his hands even as he caught it, but he thought he remembered a shape. A face.

Hissing under his breath, he endeavoured to fix it in his mind before it evaporated completely.

A face. A male face? Female? It refused to focus.

But it didn’t fade. That was something. Perhaps, later, he could –

No! No, why was he bothering with it? It was a ridiculous dream and nothing more. There was no meaning to it, no reason that he should spend time on it.

Looking at the clock and learning that it was early morning, he decided he might as well get up and then have a midday snooze instead once he was finished with the details he’d had to stop working on last night.

He liked those naps, as he could have them at his desk where the workshop’s skylight leant not only light but also quite a bit of lovely warmth, even when the weather was more likely to be grey than anything. Which, given that this was the UK, was the most common occurrence.

Given that it was early morning, it was probably just as well that the workshop wasn’t situated anywhere swanky. Not that it wasn’t expensive because buying space in London started at an arm and a leg and worked upwards from there. But it helped that it was a mostly industrial street that wasn’t chic or fancy. Yet. It was probably only a matter of time before gentrification and bohemianisation happened.

If you looked at the way he dressed and the way he behaved when he was out, you wouldn’t have thought that Anthony J. Crowley would ever choose something as relatively out of the way and unfashionable as that street for the place to have his workshop and home. You probably would have imagined him somewhere rather more stylish, cooler. Up-and-coming at the very least. It would fit far more with the way he presented himself, a sort of cool that was on-trend while being just enough out of touch that people could convince themselves it was a more timeless version thereof rather than outdated.

That suited him just fine, to leave people with that sort of impression. In fact, he depended upon it and had carefully crafted it. The fact that it additionally made sure people didn’t approach him out of the blue or tried to make friends with him, even better. To be left alone was so much easier.

So, at least, he told himself. In reality, he would like someone to get close and to get to know someone. He just…at the same time, he didn’t. It was an odd dichotomy, to wish to spend your time alone while yearning for someone to spend your time with.

It wasn’t that he hadn’t tried over the years and even once or twice in recent memory. Honestly had tried, had even thrown himself in at the deep end and fought for whatever it was he had with the other. He just couldn’t ever get it to…work, not for any length of time. Sooner or later, more often sooner, one of them, usually him, really, would drift away from whatever it was they had together, whether it be friendship or companionship or even romance.

Everything felt temporary and ever so slightly unreal, no matter how close he got or how tightly he grasped.

So, in the end, it was easier and safer for him and his heart to just…stay on the outside and observe. Drift in and out of people’s lives, touching them but never truly connecting. The touches, whether metaphorical or more physical, were usually enough to stave off the need for human interaction and closeness, at least if they happened frequently enough.

The rest of the time, he was content where he was, working here, bringing…not exactly life but shape and, more importantly, character to dead pieces of rock.

And his statues and other sculptures did have character. That was one of the things people had always remarked on; that he was able to not only create statues that looked like proper human beings but people who were more than three-dimensional paper dolls. Yes, a lot of them were idealised but there was a sense that the blank eyes staring back at you were blank by their own design rather than that of the sculptor’s.

The expressions they held were anything but blank, which assisted, too. One might argue that then it would be more popular to stick with smiles or other positive expressions like that but then, his clients would beg to differ. The latest one, not counting the one he was about to finish, had had an outright scowl but the client had been delighted, judging by their reaction – and their payment.

Speaking of payment, he really could not afford to delay much longer on the almost-done one down in the workshop. Well, technically he could but apart from Gabriel Arse-pimple Deakin, he did care to treat his clients well and make sure as far as possible that they got their commission and on the agreed-upon time.

Forgoing a shower until he was done for the day – after all, any dust that was in the workshop already would quickly cling to damp skin and hair, quite apart from what he’d create – he grabbed some clothes. As he put it on, he could feel the emotion left behind by the dream still lingering as did the face that he couldn’t recall.

That last bit was really where he was torn. There was no point to remembering and letting the last remnants of what, if it hadn’t been an outright nightmare, certainly still qualified as an uncomfortable dream fade would make it easier to forget altogether.

And yet…

Yet there was a part of him that fought to keep whatever it could of the face intact and within his conscious, despite the ache it brought with it.

Well, that was nothing some hard work couldn’t solve, right?

Right. On with it, then.

He worked all morning and past noon before it was in a state that he was remotely happy with. There were still one or two things that he thought needed more but after glaring at it for a long time, he decided that a break was in order. Come back and look at it with fresh eyes.

Yeah. That sounded like a good plan.

He was about to go over to his desk and plop himself down into the rather ostentatious throne-like chair that he’d used as his desk chair for the last few years. It was almost garish in its gold and red colour palette and for anyone else, it probably would be hellish to sit in.

For him, though, with his long limbs and spine whose joints were made of gum, it was ideal; it was one of the few chairs where he could properly splay out on and stretch, in a way that he couldn’t elsewhere, even in bed.

However, halfway over there, he changed his mind. He’d go and get a coffee and a…toastie, yeah, and munch on it in the park. Feed the ducks, maybe. Get out a bit, that was it. Fresh air and all that, that was what he needed, after half a day cooped up in here.

Why he felt cooped up, though, which he almost never did, he didn’t question.

* * *

He arrived back soaking.

Halfway to the park, coffee and warm sandwich in hand, the sky had opened, and he’d been forced to duck into the nearest bit of cover, together with many others who hadn’t thought to bring an umbrella, despite supposedly being well aware of the state of British weather.

Grumbling but deciding that if he had to wait, then he would at the very least enjoy his coffee and toastie while they were even a modicum of warm, he looked around the impromptu gathering of people slowly.

He almost choked on a bit of sandwich when he saw someone with a mop of blond curls, his heart doing an odd skip. His hand rose but before he could touch them or otherwise make a fool of himself, they turned slightly as they tried to gauge the sky, and it was not the –

Not the what, exactly? He wasn’t sure. All he knew was that it wasn’t right and that his heart felt funny.

When the rain finally let up to a level that could be considered ordinary and the little gathering went their separate ways, he was annoyed with himself and decided he might as well go home.

He’d almost made it, had made the mistake to think that he was close enough that he was practically home and mostly dry, when the sky had opened again, presumably up for the unintended challenge. What had gotten damp at most on the half a mile walk so far got soaked in the last two hundred feet.

As a result, when he finally got inside, he was in a worse mood that he had been when he left, not helped by a burn on his hand from a coffee spill and the heaviness in his heart which hadn’t abated. Consequently, he stalked his way across the floor, not seeing much of anything, only his familiarity with where everything was preventing him from colliding with something.

That was, until he got to his desk where the bin wasn’t quite where it usually stood and therefore, he banged his foot right into it. His shoe took some of the brunt but even if it’d taken all, the unexpected shock of banging was enough to send him stumbling backwards, foot instinctively rising. It isn’t so much the pain as the shock and indignity of being upstarted like that that hurts.

Cursing under and over his breath, he stamped his foot back down. Then he glared at the bin, as though that had been solely responsible somehow for all of what had happened in the last two days. It gave him just the smallest sense of satisfaction to see that the cylinder had suffered, too, falling over onto its side, its netting just slightly dented where his foot had made contact.

Then he noticed something else; the contents of the bin had of course gone tumbling out of it, too, and among them was the envelope from the cockwaffle. As it hadn’t been properly closed back up before he’d dumped it in, the motion of the bin tipping and the envelope sliding out onto the floor had transferred onto the papers inside and they now lay in what might generously be termed a fan across the floor.

More importantly, however, the pages that were visible…

A noise escaped him as his eyes caught on the pages in question and his heart did an involuntary squeeze. His feet took a step backwards all on their own.

The rough sketch he’d looked at the night before was visible and while it was indeed rough and vague, it slid right in with the vague image of the face from his dream and clicked together into a clearer if not entirely vivid image of the face.

He took another step backwards, involuntarily. Then he overcame it and moved forward quickly, snatching up the papers and the envelope. He intended to stuff the paper back into the envelope then locate his lighter and set fire to it.

Instead, he brought it up for closer inspection, perhaps in the hope that it he did, it would somehow click into place fully and become a face with details. One that he could put a name to.

A ramble of individual sounds that might’ve come together to form an actual word, a name, if he could only grasp them properly flashed across his mind before it was gone, leaving only the feeling of having known it at some point.

"Who the bloody hell are you?” Crowley said to the image, confusion and just the hint of a growl in his voice. “Why are you so familiar? I don’t know you. I know I don’t know you. So why are you in my head? Because you bleeding well are and it seems that now that you are, you’re there to stay.”

The person he’d thought he’d recognised in the people sheltering from the rain hadn’t been the only case, either. There had been two other incidents, which had thankfully not gotten to the point where he’d confronted them, and it had only been a walk home from a café. Alright, it was located a little bit away but still, it shouldn’t have been enough for him to see three people who fit the criteria. Except that they hadn’t, apart from in the broadest terms, and his mind was probably just clutching at whatever it thought it could find, inventing too if it needed.

But that was another thing to consider; why was his brain doing that, when he could find no reason as to why it would matter. It was a pleasant face, as far as he could tell, handsome and soft, but that didn’t equate to the feeling he’d experienced, which he couldn’t even blame solely on the dream, either, much as he wished to.

If it had only been the sketch, it shouldn’t have stuck like that, he felt certain, and it most definitely shouldn’t have left him with the feeling that it did.

So, the question was, if it wasn’t going to go away on its own – and he could of course leave it at least a few more days to properly test it and ought to do that but if it persisted after that – what was he going to do about it? What could he do?

Go to therapy? Yeah, that’d be great, wouldn’t it?

‘Why am I here? Oh, no reason, except that there’s this face that I can’t seem to get rid of in my mind and it doesn’t look like anybody I know except I feel like I should know them and my heart hurts when it appears in my head. Oh, yes, and an arsehole demanded I make a statue whose face looks an awful lot like the image in my head, except that it can’t, and I’ve never seen this arsehole before now.’

Somehow, he didn’t really see that one going down well. Probably end up talking about how the mind constructs images to make something make sense or some other claptrap. That would figure.

But was that what he was doing? Compositing an image out of what he knew he liked with someone he might have seen somewhere, all filtered through the description and the sketch from the berk? It was possible, he supposed, but –

Nah. It wasn’t. If it was only that, there was no reason for the reaction he had to it, the deepfelt emotion it brought.

A thought that a brain could manufacture that, too, was its own greatest manipulator sometimes flashed through his mind and he couldn’t help feeling conflicted at that. More conflicted, that was.

But why this, then? Why so sudden? He hadn’t felt particularly lonely or similar for a long time now and he most certainly – he wracked his brain for someone to connect it to, just to be sure, and he genuinely couldn’t come up with anything – hadn’t met anyone who looked like that face.

Besides, if it was a construct, wouldn’t his mind have filled in more details? He felt rather sure that at the very least, it wouldn’t have stayed as frustratingly vague as it had if it’d been a construct, despite his efforts to make it clearer, and it had.

But how else?

He threw the envelope back down, but on the desk rather than back into the bin. There could always be time for that later, if needed.

What he could do, of course, was try and get it out of his system. How, though? Well, perhaps he could –

No. Not that. No, because that would bloody well be giving in! Then Gabriel got what he wanted and that wasn’t going to happen. Not ever. He had promised himself that and he was going to stick to it, damn it!

Did…did he need to know, though? If he started on the statue, it didn’t have to be for Gabriel, did it? Just because it was the ‘design’ he’d brought didn’t mean Crowley was making a statue for him. He had emphatically said no, there was no contract, and he was free to take inspiration from everywhere, right?

He could work on it around other projects, thereby getting it out of his system while not letting his clients down – and it would provide him with legitimacy if he needed to claim that he wasn’t working on it because, well, he wasn’t. If anyone asked, he could just say he was trying out something new and that the experiment was therefore entirely for himself and not for sale.

It wasn’t as though he couldn’t afford to buy the stone he would need for the project. Though you couldn’t call him rich, exactly, he was comfortably off, as it were, by this point in his life, he could admit to that, and it wasn’t as if he splurged on a lot of things on even a semi-daily basis. There would be enough money to spend on something like that.

It would have to be life-size, he decided. Realistically, practically, it would make a whole lot more sense for him to content himself with either a half-size or even a bust. A bust would give him the entire face, after all, and he could focus on that exclusively. It would make far more sense.

That wasn’t going to happen. However much more sensible it would be, it had to be full size and full body, too.

A part of his mind whispered that the only reason for that last part was because he wanted to sculpt that soft body, too. It was probably meant to be chastising, as parts of your mind sometimes really wasn’t your friend at all, but to be perfectly honest, he was in complete agreement on that score and had no qualms about it.

If it was going to be for him and for him alone, he could bloody well do with it what he liked, and he wanted to see it in full body and full size.

When that same part of his mind then jabbed at him with the casual mention that the reason for wanting it full size was to try and capture that person, something to keep with him to permanently alleviate the way his heart squeezed.

The annoying thing about that was that he had no rebuttal, nor could he take it with as lightly and differently as the first point, so he very firmly ignored it.

Before anything else, though, what he needed to do was to finish the statue that he was being paid to work on, and not get distracted by what he wanted to do.

As he got back to working on the finishing details, though, trying not to get distracted, he thought he could feel not only the anger draining away but at least a little bit of the wrenched, heavy feeling in his heart, replacing it with something warm.

He thought he knew why that was, but he got it wrong and he’d only discover that much, much later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am not entirely certain where the whole dream-sequence came from but the moment that it did, well...I didn't want to change it.  
I know this is almost entirely Crowley and his thoughts. I worry that that's boring but I really hope that it isn't.


	3. Around the bend?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley starts to work out the basics. As he does so, he struggles with whether he ought to continue and eventually, whether he's going around the bend from all of this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry. I did not mean to take this long on the chapter. I hope I can be forgiven and some might still be reading. Thank you to the people who left feedback on it, it means such a lot.

Should he make a model of it in clay first? There were quite a few who preferred to do it that way in case they otherwise ruined a pricey lump of white rock and others who preferred to go straight in and let the statue out, as it were. Crowley himself fell somewhere in the middle, happy to do either depending on the complexity and the clarity of his vision beforehand.

That last part was the reason he decided to forego making a clay model first this time. Yes, so he still hadn’t gotten any more clarity on the image of the face itself, even in the fortnight he’d tried so far – he’d had to wait on a new piece of marble, too, as the one he’d had left in the workshop wasn’t at all big enough – but that didn’t matter.

In fact, he felt certain that with this, to sculpt it first in clay would destroy it somehow. It might not look like him, and he was now rather certain it was a male, and so if he tried to scale that mistake, whether it was large or small, up to marble, he would end up with something that was altogether wrong and he’d have failed.

Failed? Wasn’t that a bit too melodramatic? Who would he be failing, exactly?

Certainly, it was not Gabriel. Who’d unfortunately been in once or rather, he’d tried to come in, but Crowley had taken to locking his doors very securely after his first visit, which had of course resulted in some shouting and some banging on the front door. He’d managed to ignore that and thankfully, the berk hadn’t tried to break the door down or similar.

Unfortunately, he’d then taken to calling his phone. He could of course block the number, but he had a shrewd suspicion that wasn’t going to go well. Gabriel would tire of it all soon enough, anyway, and find someone else. It wasn’t as though Crowley was the only sculptor in London, let alone the country.

So, who else? Himself? Possibly but he could try again, especially if it was only a clay model. In fact, from that point of view, it made more sense to try it out on clay until he was certain he had it right and then replicate that.

To replicate it, though…maybe that was the issue. He couldn’t. Not with this. It ought to feel twee and normally he would sneer at the suggestion but nevertheless, he couldn’t help the feeling that if he tried and got it right on the clay model, then that was it. To replicate it would somehow diminish it and wouldn’t bear the soul of it.

It wasn’t as much about getting a specific look as it was to get a specific feel _through _a look. If he got the look of it right, then it would be the person there, in all but life. That was what was the important part.

To be able to look at it, both as it emerged and when it was finished, look at it and know that this was the face from his dream.

Well, dreams, really. There had been more than one to follow the first one, even though none had been as long or as detailed, for lack of a better term, as that. But there seemed to be little more hints scattered through them, nevertheless.

For one, he knew that the person in question, the one he would be trying to commit to marble, was shorter than him. Not by a huge amount but just enough that were they real, Crowley would, if he couldn’t quite manage to rest his chin on their head, at least easily bury his nose in their hair. Which was short and curly, he’d seen that in another of them. More than one, actually, which solidified it in his mind.

To look at it and feel that wrenching ache in his heart lessen entirely. Oh, God, he hoped that it would.

And he hoped that it never would.

So, the decision was made that he would make it from marble in the first go, guided by his heart and inner eye as much as his outer eye, not to mention his skills and experience.

He laid a hand against the white surface of the rock.

“I’ll get you out of there, I promise,” he found himself whispering, then immediately felt utterly stupid.

There wasn’t anyone there to get out. Not anymore than the rest of the sculptures he made. Just a three-dimensional model of a human being, really, nothing more. A glorified one, maybe, or some might say a mockery, but as cold and dead as it had been when it had been unshaped.

He put hard graft and soul into his work, of course he did, because otherwise they would remain dead things without that spark that made them work. But to even think of a statue as someone, an actual person, trapped inside a stone prison…that was ludicrous.

_But really, so is the rest of it, isn’t it? The dreams and the face and everything, that is. And does it really matter that much if it’s silly? Can’t it still have meaning? _an inner voice argued. It was surprisingly soft and warm and sounded nothing like him – and not just because he didn’t have that light a voice.

Trying to ignore the exceedingly odd feeling of having an alien voice arguing in his head, especially as it had a thread of joy in there, he conceded that it could. But he needed to make sure that nobody else saw or heard him. Eccentricity was for art students, not working sculptors.

_Especially not the ones desperate to remain cool to outsiders, eh? _

That was at least his own voice, even if that was all that he could call positive about it.

Focusing back on the here and now, he found that his hand had started to brush over the stone gently, as though he was caressing someone precious.

He pulled his hand away, grateful that in his thoughtlessness he hadn’t put his bare hand on something he’d already made, thus transferring greases that could ruin it.

Right. Back to proper work now. He was in the middle of something else, after all, and there was a deadline to respect.

* * *

That held out for about an hour and a half, then he was back at the untouched lump of white, his pitching tool and his point chisel held together in one hand as he’d brought them over.

He told himself that it only made sense; he’d finished the pitching on what he was being paid to work on and would now have to go into roughing out a more defined version of the shape he wanted, and so, he could move onto his own, to keep the rhythm going.

That he knew that wasn’t right and he was making excuses was another matter entirely and one he quite studiously ignored.

Closing his eyes, he could see the exact shape that he wanted for the statue. Not all the details, of course, and sadly not the face, but the shape and dimensions and pose came to him as though it was an already finished piece that he was attempting to recall.

To be fair, his statues were often very clear in his mind without the aid of a previously made model, but this felt…as though it didn’t entirely come from his mind. Mostly but not all the way. Some of it came from the dreams, certainly, but the rest, he honestly couldn’t say.

The statue would be soft and rounded compared but with a set to it to reflect that it wasn’t all chub, either. He knew that it would be clothed, and though he’d at first thought it’d be a toga and that it wouldn’t cover quite as much as it maybe should have to be decent. That was more popular with female sculptures, but it could work on males just as well and after all, it was only him he was making it for. He could tailor it to his own preferences.

But as he started to apply his pitching tool, he realised that no, a toga wouldn’t be right, no matter how decent it was kept. He couldn’t say why exactly that was, he just knew that it wasn’t right. What would be right, though?

He pondered that while he worked, helped by the fact that he knew the stance for the statue very clearly; standing, though leaning on a pillar or similar with his elbow to help with the support of the statue, a book opened in his hands.

Crowley knew that it probably would be more accurate to have him look down at the book and probably would give a better overall effect, too. However, this was for him and he wanted to be able to get a good look at the face while he worked and afterwards, as well.

That was probably pathetic and a lot of other words besides, but nobody needed to know except for him, did they?

It wasn’t as though it would be on display anywhere except in the workshop and even then, he planned to have it placed somewhere that wouldn’t be immediately visible if clients, or…_others, _came in. To be perfectly honest, what he really wanted was to put it somewhere only he would see it, such as placing in his flat above, but the only way to access that was one stair that was relatively narrow and decidedly old.

Narrow could be worked with, otherwise he would never have gotten his king-size – and that was a very carefully chosen American king-size rather than the poxy British, thank you – up there in the first place. But old meant that it wasn’t in a condition that could take the weight of the statue for long enough to get it all the way up there. Not in one piece, in any case.

And the floorboards were not the best, either, if he did manage to get it up there, for instance through hoisting it through one of the almost incongruously large windows. Putting such a great, concentrated weight on them could not end well.

Why he was so adamant that the only one who should be looking at the statue was him, he wasn’t entirely sure. He was making it for himself, yes, but why did it matter so much to him whether or not anyone else got to see it? It would only be a statue, after all, and apart from Gabriel not seeing it for obvious reasons, he couldn’t see the problem in others seeing it.

He wasn’t comfortable with it, however. Not at all. And so that was the way it was going to be. End of.

The pitching was going surprisingly well, especially given that he’d been distracted by his thoughts as he worked, which on its own was highly unusual for him.

One of the things he liked about his work was that the concentration needed for it pushed other thoughts out of his head, gave his mind some respite from its constant stream of thoughts that was more of a messy waterfall or possibly a vortex at the bad times, and he craved it. It was why he sometimes came down to work on some irrelevant little thing when his thoughts prevented him from sleep.

Now, though…with this thing, it seemed that even though it should be the perfect candidate for keeping his mind occupied, as it needed to keep the at once clear and vague image firmly fixed inside it, his mind couldn’t help but wander away to other thoughts constantly, it seemed.

The fact that he hadn’t, yet, to hit the marble wrong and crack it down the middle was shocking, let alone managing to get the general shape that he wanted out of it.

Except for the back, which seemed surprisingly lumpy. It wasn’t even as though he hadn’t worked on that part yet, but the shape seemed intentional, even if he didn’t know the intention.

Or did he?

Closing his eyes again, he tried to focus on the image in his mind, foregoing the face for the moment.

There was something there. Something…white and…

No. No, it couldn’t be. He wouldn’t ever imagine _that_. Why would he?

His parents had not been particularly religious, one way or the other, and whatever tendencies Crowley might have had in that direction had been firmly pushed out of his mind by a few teachers, who’d been of the particular brand of religion that was more concerned with condemning people for not following their interpretation of a text to the letter than living a good life according to said text.

So why the buggering fuck was the image he had in his mind adorned with _wings? _It couldn’t be considered anything else, it really couldn’t. But at the same time, it made absolutely no sense whatsoever.

He raised the pitching tool to pitch the lump away and…hesitated.

It felt wrong. He couldn’t express why exactly that was, he just knew that was how it felt.

Which was ridiculous. It was only a lump of rock, made for him and no one else, and there wasn’t going to be any wings on it.

He put the tool to the rock, raised the hammer and brought it down.

Half an inch from the tool, he stopped, the withheld motion vibrating through and tensing his muscles though he somehow managed to keep it there. Keep it from cutting off that entire part.

Perhaps he would just…wait. Yes. He could always wait and work on the other parts of the statue while he worked out whether he wanted to keep the wings or not.

Yes. That was what he’d do.

As he lowered the tools away from the stone, he stared at the marble.

“Why would you have wings?” he whispered. Then he snorted slightly, despite himself, without much humour. “An angel, are you? Something out of what you’d stick on graves back in the day. That’s not very modern of you, is it? And it’s not as though I need you. To be an angel, I mean. I’ve never believed in that sort of – and now I’m talking to you. Again. _It_. Talking to it. It’s a lump of marble and I’m talking to it as if it’s a person. Christ.”

He took a step backwards, then turned his back on it. Quickly, though whether it was because he didn’t want to be reminded of what he’d just done or because he felt compelled to continue talking to it wasn’t evident, not even to himself.

His hands clenched around the tools still in his hands. It was ridiculous. Not just the wings, either. It was silly and preposterous, through and through.

What was he even doing with all of this? Why was he doing it?

He’d never made anything sculptural for himself. Had never seen the need to or the reason for it. What would he do with it, after all? It would just take up space.

The only possible reason he could come up with why he might do so felt…honestly, it felt silly and pathetic.

He put the tools down and stuck his hands in his non-existent pockets. Then, after taking a look at the sculpture he was supposed to be working on and deciding that it was for the best if he got up early in the morning and finished the last polish then, he stomped his way upstairs and threw himself onto his sofa, turning on the telly in the hopes of drowning out his thoughts with something pleasantly humdrum.

But the image wouldn’t leave him. He knew that. It wasn’t as though he hadn’t tried and yet, here he was, stuck with it and with a longing for whoever it was he had created in his head.

Because it must be someone he’d created in his mind, even though he had no recollection of doing so and in any case, whoever it was felt far too…not real, that sounded too fanciful by half. But they did feel too…complex, however vague they were.

As did his other sculptures, though, surely? Wasn’t that part of his particular skillset? That he could see the image so clearly in his mind, at least most of the time? They always had clearly defined characteristics, physically and to a certain degree also personality-wise, through the physical ones.

That was the point, though, he realised; that this wasn’t just to a certain degree. It felt as though it was, if not the entire three hundred and sixty degrees, then at least closer to that then the one hundred and eighty.

The personality was in there, in his image and his mind, whether he’d made it up or not. He just hadn’t gotten to it yet, consciously so, in any case.

Or was he just making that up to justify his odd behaviour?

Turning off the telly with a grimace, he paused as he thought the suggestion over. Then, closing his eyes against his better judgement, he tried to get a better fix on what exactly he had of the person he meant to sculpt, both physically and psychologically, in as much as that term might be used for what was essentially a figment of the imagination.

It was with a little bit of concern that he noticed not just how quickly the image came to the forefront of his mind but with how much clarity it did, despite its vagueness.

No…not quite vagueness. It was still far from crystal but really, when he did focus on it, there was certainly an amount of detail and nuance to the figure that he felt sure hadn’t been there before. And – yes, that were the wings in question, arcing behind the figure in a curve that suggested they’d rested in that position for some time, natural as anything.

Natural. That really was the word, wasn’t it? For as utterly ridiculous as it should have looked, as the whole concept was, he couldn’t deny that it…it looked right. It did, in fact, look as though it could be no other way. That to separate the wings from the man – angel? – would be like picking the wings off a butterfly.

But _why? _Where did this whole thing come from? Not from the sketches, those just fuelled and focused what had already been present in his mind, both from what he’d liked and what he’d dreamed about.

He could even see the way that the way the figure stood was quite characteristic, that the book it held was important to it, and that it was someone…someone who was kind and warm, full of caring but without being a pushover.

No, scratch that. He didn’t see it; he just knew it. When he focused on it, there it was, as clear as if it had always been there. As clear as the face refused to be.

He thumped his head backwards into the back of the sofa he was as good as sprawled across, groaning as he did so, though it wasn’t because of pain from the impact with the rather hard back cushion.

Why was he trying to fight it?

_Because going ‘round the bend isn’t something that’s good, is it? And talking to inanimate object, imagining that there’s a personality to that inanimate object, in all seriousness, that’s not exactly a good sign, is it?_

Wasn’t it only when you expected said object to answer that you had a problem?

_Are you going to wait around for that?_

No. But that wasn’t to say that he was going crackers, was it? Or would, for that matter. People talked to their pets, didn’t they? Alright, so they were alive – but plants, then. People talked to their plants – it was even said to be a sensible thing to do to encourage them to grow.

If he talked to something that looked like a human being, was that so bad? It would be only articulating his thoughts out loud, after all, and it beat talking to thin air.

He groaned again, in utter frustration. Now he was waffling back and forth on it, coming up with plausible reasoning for either side and basically getting bugger anywhere. And he hadn’t even gotten much done on the statue, either.

His ringtone cut through his thoughts with a call, the noise of it shrill in the stillness of the flat. Simultaneously annoyed and relieved, he reached out for it blindly, with the result that it fell onto the floor before he picked it up.

He didn’t immediately recognise the number as he tried to answer but it cut off before he had a chance to.

Frowning, he took another look at the number.

Wait, hang on, that – where had he left that?

It took a bit of digging but he did unearth the card he had been given by Gabriel and sure enough, there it was, the exact number that had just called his phone.

Of all the – didn’t the git get the message earlier? Well, obviously not, he’d learned that on that very first visit, hadn’t he, and there hadn’t been any indication that he would take a clue when there wasn’t any communication.

In all likelihood, he wasn’t going to give up for anything and so Crowley really needed to find a way to work around it.

_Come on, if that’s not a clear indication that you should abandon the whole thing – that if you don’t work on it, he’ll eventually realise that you’re not going to do it. If nothing else, it will be far easier to convince him that you aren’t then than if you’ve got a statue in any stage of completion._

Yeah, but as he had no problem threatening him at the very start, with nothing indicating that Crowley would do it for him at all, never mind putting him at the top of the queue, as it were, could he ever really argue that it’d make any sort of difference whether there was a statue or not, should he come back to the workshop?

The phone rang again and lo and behold, it was, of course, the cockwaffle.

Crowley fumbled a bit but managed to cancel the call and then also block the number so that he wasn’t able to call again. Not that he thought he’d be able to free himself that way. That would be far too easy, wouldn’t it? And someone like Gabriel wouldn’t get the message if it was written in the sky in blazing flame.

But it might give him a bit of respite.

Respite to do what, though, exactly?

Finish it. Finish the statue.

Really? Why the bloody hell was that the deciding factor? That just made it spite, didn’t it? Spite was really going to be the motivating factor on him making something that he was worried about sending him wrong in the head, was it?

Well, no. Of course not.

He growled under his breath as he sprawled further out on the sofa. Then, suddenly, he shot up into a sitting position.

It wasn’t because of Gabriel. Nor was it because he was lonely or really on the cusp of going cuckoo. Well, of course, to proclaim your sanity wasn’t the sanest of things, that was true. Even so, though…

Maybe it sounded soppy and pathetic, not to mention crazy, but he wanted to meet the person he had in his mind, even if all it would ever be was a dead figure in white, cold stone. Not just wanted, really; he felt that it was paramount, that he _needed _to meet this person. To know for certain who they were and how they looked in detail.

Go crazy trying to preserve his sanity, was it?

Perhaps…

He closed his eyes again, blowing out a heavy breath, feeling more than a little conflicted, to say the least.

As soon as he did, the image of the man…angel…whichever swam in front of his eyes again, entirely unbidden this time, clearer than it had ever been before.

More than that, though, and far more important as well as both thrilling and frightening, the name that he had been struggling to grasp hold of. The one that had been on the tip of his tongue for so long without ever forming into anything that could be considered a word, despite his continued efforts to make it so.

Now it did, as the soft, warm face smiled at him, a smile that ached in its sweetness and familiarity. The mouth opened and said…

Aziraphale.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies if this feels like Crowley's just been going back and forth and not gone anywhere. I promise it will pick up in the next and that I'll hurry to get that chapter out.  
Oh, btw, just to be absolutely clear - the only sculpting I've ever done was in cheese wax in art class to match the style of Giacometti. I've never worked in marble so that is all just research, which may be lacking.


	4. Working on a statue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley starts to work on the statue in earnest and starts to wonder about it, imbue it with personality, something which he never does. It almost comes too easily to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cannot thank the people giving feedback on this enough for being still interested in more and happy to have it. That really does mean an awful lot to me. Seriously!! ❤️

He slammed the book shut.

Nothing. He couldn’t find it anywhere.

When the internet had failed him, he’d gone to the nearest library and searched for books on names, such as Victorian or older, things that wouldn’t be common or even in the remotest use today or within recent memory. He’d even gone through quite a few different church registers that had been kept from closed churches, just to see whether there were any there that he’d missed.

But despite all his hard work, there was nothing.

Oh, he could find Michael and Gabriel easily enough, but he’d also located a Raphael, Uriel, Sariel, Raziel, and even Azrael. Trouble was that almost all of those were more angel names than they were bestowed on regular humans, if they were at all, and even if they had been, none of them really came close enough to Aziraphale, did they?

As if that wasn’t enough, he wasn’t even sure how you spelled it. He supposed that it was a ‘ph’ rather than an ‘f’ but that was purely based on how Raphael was spelled. Was it a ‘z’ like Azrael or an ‘s’? The ending of ‘el’ seemed more likely given all of the other names but there was something about it that didn’t feel right. He’d tried any and all combinations he could think of when he’d searched the web but to no avail. He’d even tried to let the search engine auto-fill.

He was absolutely certain that he had the name right, though, regardless of the fact that he couldn’t find it and he couldn’t be sure of his spelling of it.

But where, then, had it come from? Surely it must come from somewhere. Apart from his statues and his ability to visualise things like them, he wasn’t creative. Not in that regard, anyway. He’d never made up crazy stories just because he could. His teachers would beg to differ, but he honestly hadn’t, and he certainly hadn’t come up with names for imaginary races and people.

So…it didn’t exist as a name, as far as he could tell, and yet he hadn’t made it up, he was _certain._

_Surely that’s another tick in the ‘you’ve gone barmy’ box, isn’t it?_

Yeah? Well, as long as it wasn’t a giant rabbit named Harvey, he should be fine, shouldn’t he?

_Not…really, no. But fine. Argue with yourself inside your head like this or talk out loud to a lump of rock. Potato, taters, really, isn’t it?_

Ignoring the disapproving look he’d gotten at the slamming of the book from the nearby patrons of the library in question, he got up, leaving the books on the table. Then something inside him made him stop and, with a sigh, he turned around and put the books back where he’d found them.

Then he sauntered out of the building, hands in his non-existent pockets, slouch in his shoulders, glaring at anyone who got too close. Though his eyes were hidden, he could by this point get his expression across with what little was still visible perfectly well.

He’d gone back down to work on the statue of his soft angel – no matter how he tried, he found it incredibly difficult not to think of it like that once the thought had settled itself into his mind – almost the moment the name had come to him, working with a renewed fervour and direction, pushing thoughts firmly and repeatedly out of his mind whenever they popped up.

It was nice, just working, finding that rhythm that was committing to a project for the period your worked, almost entering a sort of trance. Not quite a trance, really, but at least a bit of the tranquillity that he was craving in the face of what had gone before.

But when he’d gotten to the face, he’d had to pause to change chisels and that had sent the thoughts whirling back in like the debris carried by a gust of wind strong enough to blow open a firmly closed door, the debris scattering all over the place.

He’d stared at the rough shape for a long time, none of the thoughts focused enough to understand or staying put long enough to decipher.

“Aziraphale?” he’d asked the rock. “What kind of name is that, anyway? An angel name, what with the wings and all? But that’s a bit – a bit on the nose, to say the bleeding least, and where the fuck did I pick that up?”

But if he was an angel, Crowley should be able to find him in some old text or something. Or at the very least, he could find what the name really was rather than the version he’d come up with in his head.

Which had led him to the research that had so far proven completely fruitless. The conclusion had to be that what he had in his mind was either entirely made up or came from a mix of those aforementioned angel names.

That still didn’t explain where he’d gotten them or it from.

More importantly, though, it didn’t explain why his heart did a funny little jump, which was really more a short series of jumps each time the name popped into his mind. It wasn’t unpleasant, either, though it did have something of that ache the face and the images from his dreams in it generated.

If he’d genuinely made it up, his heart shouldn’t react that way. Not to a name.

Not to any of it at all, actually, seeing as…well, he’d been over that plenty of times by now. And yet his mind kept returning to it, at times that made sense for it to as well as…all the other times, really. It was no longer within his control, if it ever had been.

And that was apart from the fact that the want to talk to the bleeding inanimate object was beginning to feel, only slightly, for _now_, like something of a need to, as well. Perhaps even, as if the ruddy need didn’t feel ludicrous enough as it was, a bit of an obligation to.

Obligation to who? Would the _statue _– which wasn’t even a statue yet, just a rough shape that would eventually become something…much like so many people, really – be _sad _if he didn’t talk to it now? Seriously? Did he really just think that? He did not…

Except he clearly did.

Had he gone over the waterfall of sanity already or been sailing towards it in a nailed-up barrel for longer than he’d thought?

Maybe so. It certainly felt that way right now, as he went through it all again on his way back from the library, which only made him glare fiercer at anyone unlucky enough to pass too close to him.

“Suppose it could be worse,” he muttered to himself at some point when he’d calmed down just a little, which took most of the walk back home, including a not inconsiderable detour. Not that he was outright calm about it, because who the hell would be considering everything, but he was certainly feeling a little less frayed about it.

Regained his cool, some might say.

And honestly, it really could be worse, couldn’t it? If he was going to go nuttier than a pub mix, then talking to statues in his home, where nobody else could see him, where he wasn’t expecting them to answer back, that –

His thoughts came to a screeching halt as he reached his street and saw a figure that he regretfully, if thankfully in the circumstances, recognised straight away and had absolutely no wish to see ever again.

He backed away, slowly so that he wouldn’t draw undue attention to himself, or so he hoped, at least. It would just about figure that the berk would spot him anyway, though, wouldn’t it?

Cursing under his breath, he watched carefully as he moved backwards, looking for any sign, any at all, that Gabriel had seen him.

It did help that if he did spot him, Crowley felt positive that he would be in no doubt whatsoever. ‘Subtle’ was a word, a descriptor he felt would stick to Gabriel Deakin about as well as Teflon. But then, he wouldn’t have ascribed ‘patient’ to him, either, given the whole MO when he’d first barged in and demanded, no, not even that, blatantly made the incorrect and arrogant assumption that he would just get one.

Yet…there he was, standing in front of the workshop as though he had all the time in the world. From the distance he was at, Crowley couldn’t see his facial expression, of course, and body language could be just as tricky when it was on its own. But though there was something of impatience in there, it seemed to be something built in. As though he expected the world to move exactly the way he wanted it to and could the world please hurry up and get with that program, too?

He wouldn’t – he wouldn’t break in, would he? Crowley had blocked him, after all, and he evidently was of the special breed that could be completely unaffected by a clue-by-four that would put a giant’s club to shame.

But…surely, he didn’t expect Crowley to be done with – he would, wouldn’t he? Of course, he would. Probably it was the reason why he’d called, to ask when he could pick it up already.

Though Crowley didn’t know whether he could take the man on should it come to it, he was more worried that if Gabriel got in, he wouldn’t go for Crowley as much as he would for any of the sculptures.

It would be unsubtle and medieval, to say the least, to break a statue or other sculpture to get his point across and that was really the point, wasn’t it?

_Please just piss off, _he thought, fervently, watching the man and willing him to go away and never come back.

He waited for what felt like absolute ages, and probably was, during which time the arsehat waited, paced, waited, banged on the door, waited, looked at his watch, waited, called someone and had an argument with them, waited, paced a little again, waited, called another number which didn’t go through, let out a string of what had to be curses, judging by tone and then, finally, seemed to give up after another bang on the closed and double-locked door.

Gabriel then headed in the direction of Crowley but thankfully crossed the road and got into a car, a sleek one in matte silver – or was it cream? It was hard to tell – which sped away within a minute of the door closing.

Crowley waited a few long minutes, just to be sure that he was genuinely gone and wouldn’t return, right now, before he unfolded himself from the corner he’d been hiding in and walked to the workshop.

Not that the ginger could truly believe that he had gotten rid of him. It was only a matter of time before the berk would be back, possibly with reinforcement if he still didn’t get his way.

Was that worth it, then? To keep the statue not just a secret but away from Gabriel. It was only a statue, after all.

He’d been saying that a lot lately, hadn’t he? Was that another tick in the ‘going Bursar’ box or were his thoughts just a big mess? Was there a difference?

Anyway, the point was that to try to prevent Gabriel from getting hold of it like this seemed like less of a smart move or even a you-don’t-make-my-decisions-for-me now and more of a genuine risk that could cost him and might even cost him dearly, if the man was as capable of following through on his threats as it would appear.

Especially when he got up close to the workshop door and spotted that a note had been left on it.

Again, nothing was outright overt even if it wasn’t exactly subtle, either. And it confirmed his earlier thought.

Gabriel wanted his statue, come hell or high water. To deny him would have consequences.

Well, of course it would. Not only did everything have consequences of one kind or another but the man wasn’t the type to let something slide, even Crowley could spot that. All he had to do for that was be able to _read_, after all.

Oh, he might be patient or at least manage an admittedly somewhat poor facsimile of the real thing but that seemed to only be the case as long as he believed he would get his way, eventually.

Once he didn’t…

Crowley pulled the note down, considered chucking it but instead stuffed it in his jacket pocket, crumbling it a little in the process, which felt stupidly good in the circumstances. Then he unlocked the door, went in and re-locked it, just in case.

Walking through the workshop to check in on the various things he had out – it wasn’t as though he was decorating with them, mind, they were all there for a purpose and certainly nothing else – just in case. Just in case of what, he wasn’t entirely sure but…

Everything seemed to be as when he’d left it which was a relief and more of one than he would’ve thought it’d be, which surprised and worried him.

The question was, given more evidence that Gabriel wasn’t going to let up, in both senses, was it worth having his livelihood ruined for one measly statue?

His eyes fell on the rough shape that was to be the soft angel and immediately, he felt not just silly but outright stupid for even considering it.

He’d gone through this before and had already arrived at his resolution, so why the fuck was he even thinking about it? Apart from the obvious reason, of course.

For a long, long moment he stared at the lump, then at another statue, though in actual fact it was more a bust, managed to get done, too, despite all the issues, and to a standard he felt he could hand over with satisfaction or at least a good conscience. They were going to pick it up tomorrow.

Then he mumbled, “Screw this for a bloody game of soldiers.” Rather than stomping off or otherwise getting angry, though, which might be expected – he certainly would have if he’d been asked – he found that he was grinning at the contents of his workshop, the angel statue in particular.

If he was going to go bonkers while risking incurring the wrath of someone like the cockwaffle, he might as well go all the way, right?

“If you’re gonna go, then go with style, eh?” he remarked out loud, his grin widening. The humour in it was heavily streaked with black.

* * *

He almost shouted ‘I’m back’ when he came in the door, laden with groceries. Well, laden was perhaps too strong a word for it but he certainly did have more in his shopping bags than he usually did. He’d felt good, almost incongruously so, when he’d gone down to the shops and had spent some time finding some goodies.

Not too much time, though. He was just a little bit antsy about being away from his work for too long at the best of times, at least when it was at an interesting point in its development, and the feeling had only increased since he’d started to work a proper shape into the angel statue. Which should probably worry him but what was one more thing laden on top of everything else? The charge sheet would be quite substantial regardless.

He was glad he didn’t shout anything, though. That would be a step too far yet for him to cope with doing.

_Talking to the inanimate is one thing. Talking to them as though they will answer is just…well, I’m not quite that far over the waterfall yet. Probably going to be soon enough but there’s no need to rush it, is there?_

There was a particular reason he wanted to get back to the angel statue. One might say, yes, of course he wanted to go back, but it was actually more to do with the fact that he had, with some pause and more than a little trepidation, it had to be said, begun to, very carefully, sculpt the face.

Ideally, once he had started on that procedure, he would’ve stayed and worked on it until he was at the very least halfway through or he was scared that working on it anymore in one go would jeopardise the sculpting.

His stomach had begun to growl at him, however, and wouldn’t let up no matter how long he ignored it. So he’d eventually capitulated and had gone out, taking care to lock his door after him and do it more securely, as he had every time in the last few days that he’d had to go out, on the off-chance that Gabriel would come back.

_More of a question of ‘when’, though, really, isn’t it? Not an ‘if’ at all._

But if he began to think about that, then he would…well, he could then probably add ‘paranoid’ to the charge sheet, in capital letters, too.

Now he was back, however, his hunger satisfied for the time being by a bacon sandwich and with provisions to last him some time, so he didn’t need to go out. He quickly went up to deposit the groceries in the fridge and on the small amount of kitchen-countertop. Then he made his way back down even faster, pulling his work apron on as he went.

Some worked with aprons, some without, some had breathing gear and protective glasses and others thought it a completely pointless extra. There really was no set way except for personal preference and as it allowed him to carry his tools with him easier when he needed them and protected clothes when he hadn’t changed into decided work outfits, Crowley preferred an apron.

The thing here, however, was that getting it on while he was moving meant that he was ready when he reached the workshop floor again and could therefore go straight to work, toothed and claw chisel ready in his hands.

Once he got there, however, he couldn’t help but pause. It was still relatively rough, hence the chisels rather than the rasp and the riffler, and the rest of the sculpture was still mostly the general, rough shape that he had gotten to before Gabriel had attempted a return.

Even so, he felt he had gotten quite a way, as he could now almost superimpose the image in his mind onto the rough but somehow already soft face that…well, it couldn’t quite stare back at him, yet, could it? There were no eyes, for one, and though some people could be said to stare with their nostrils or their teeth, Crowley hadn’t gotten to those, either, not beyond their very general outline. You kind of needed to have a good idea of where the nose would go when you started, after all.

To be honest, however, he wasn’t sure there would be teeth, even though he knew for certain that there would be a smile. He couldn’t even imagine Aziraphale without a smile, one which was soft and warm and went straight to your heart, no matter how jaded, ahem, you were. It was one of the very few things that was crystal clear and had been for a while, at least.

But even though it couldn’t stare at him yet, he thought he felt _something _there in the air around him, something that he couldn’t put his finger on but knew was there regardless.

He shook his head and almost rolled his eyes at himself.

“Best get to work, then,” he muttered aloud. He dug into a pocket to fish out the correct tool, put it to the cold stone and then…

Then he hesitated again, which was puzzling. He knew what it was supposed to look like, more or less, he’d come to terms with, for a given value of the term, at any rate, what kind of mental state this had sent him into. This was his job, the one he was good at, to say the least, and therefore very unlikely to screw it up. There should be nothing to make him pause or be uncertain.

He looked at the white sphere that would be the face for several long moments.

“Suppose I’m just nervous about meeting you, eh?” he said, cracking something that might be mistaken for a smile. “You’ve managed to build up a big image in my mind, haven’t you? Would just figure that when I finally do have the bollocks to do it, I end up disappointing myself. Or you. Could be either, except I can’t disappoint a statue. But I suppose I can disappoint whoever your image is based on – and now I’m rambling. Super.”

Shaking his head again, he raised the hammer, adjusted the chisel and brought the hammer down.

_Please let this go right. I want to meet him._

* * *

As he worked and more details began to emerge, fitting the image in his mind, which to be honest was to his immense relief, while expanding on it at the same time, he found himself drawn to it. Not that he wasn’t already, of course; there was a reason his heart ached and otherwise behaved strangely when he thought about his imaginary person named Aziraphale, after all. Even if he had no clue what that reason was.

But even so, he wasn’t quite expecting the number of times he found himself pausing to look at the face or even to let his fingers of knuckles smooth over some part that he’d just worked on, as if to apologise for the dust and other debris that had landed on the bit while he worked.

And it was good work, he could admit to that. Even having to work to an idea that, well, not so much that it wasn’t his, because that was the nature of commissions, after all, but one that was at the same time as clear and vague as this one, the whole thing was coming along very well, and he was incredibly pleased to see it.

_You really want to meet him that badly, do you?_

Well…yes. After everything, he could admit that he did, even out loud, if he needed to.

He took a step back to get a better picture of the whole thing.

Yes, it was progressing very well, which he hadn’t expected after all the issues there’d been. The face was shaping up in a good way, the posture seemed mostly right, though he would have to adjust a few things. It was nothing major, just a bit in his clothing and the angle of the book. He’d originally thought of the book being held flat, splayed out in the reader’s hand, with the other hand on top, a finger marking the place.

Now, though…the book would still be there, of course, and he would hold it open. But it would at an angle where you couldn’t see what was on the page if you looked at him head-on. It felt far more correct that that should be obscured and that he should hold it more like it was something precious and fragile that wasn’t to be sullied by anyone.

It was a somewhat silly thought, especially considering that Crowley was not exactly one to think of books as precious. They were useful, sure, but beyond that, he didn’t see the appeal.

But Aziraphale would. How Crowley knew that, he didn’t know. Just as so much else in this whole bleeding mess, really, so he honestly shouldn’t be surprised. But know it he did, with a certainty that should’ve been just a little bit worrying.

Yes, Aziraphale would see the appeal and he would treat a book like the one he’d hold as though it was something special, something precious, because to him, it was. Not the only precious thing but certainly one of the big ones.

“Why would an angel care about books?” he wondered, not realising that he’d done it out loud. Was there an angel of books that he hadn’t taken note of when he’d done his research earlier? He tried to think back.

There was one for knowledge or something like that but that was…Raziel? His nose scrunched as he tried to remember. Something along those lines, at least. But that did not necessarily mean the same as books, did it? Besides, it was not the same name or even close.

Would that be the only thing he would care about? No, surely not. Not with a figure like that, soft and wonderful. You didn’t get that from outright hating food, now did you? And Crowley could just see him tuck into a good meal, savouring each and every morsel that he tasted.

He started working again and as he worked on that very same belly, the thought of how it would feel to run his hand across it and to then have it be cloth and flesh beneath his fingers rather than cold marble imitating the two flashed through his mind.

Oh.

In the few instances where he’d gotten together with someone in a romantic or even purely sexual sense, they had been…more towards his own body than that of his putto-shaped angel. That was partly coincidence and partly being…well, not exactly scared but something along those lines of approaching people who looked like that, worried he’d scare them off before he even got close.

Maybe it had even been that he hadn’t been able to admit it fully to himself, at least a little. He didn’t honestly know, having never been interested in exploring it, with the possibility of what he might find that he couldn't...well...

Of course, he could go out now and find someone who would fill that criteria without worrying about more than that one night but somehow, that still seemed daunting. Or unappealing. One of the two.

Was it pathetic, then, to harbour even the tiniest bit of such a thought towards a statue?

But it wasn’t the statue, was it? Not really. Wasn’t it still what the statue represented?

And what was that, exactly? A phantom angel? A fantasy come to the surface through his dreams? A vague ideal which he was desperate to bring into what might loosely be termed reality? A representation of what he wanted but couldn’t have – and why couldn’t he have it, exactly? – put into one inanimate object?

Perhaps, yes. Perhaps all of those.

Then again, he was hardly naïve enough to not think that at least a few of the carvings of various things he’d made for people over the years were purely for aesthetic reasons. Well, they might be, but it was a more…personal version, you might say.

Which was fair enough, really. Everyone had their kink, after all, he wasn’t going to judge. It was fine. As long as they didn’t hurt anybody with it, it was all fine.

That it took him this long to reach that point, that desire himself, considering it was right at his fingertips, and tools, if he wanted it, was probably quite impressive in its way.

And it wasn’t as though it was his primary objective with making the statue, either. Not to look at nor to touch. It was a huge part, admittedly, but that was because it tied into his desire to see, to meet the person he’d been dreaming about.

Would Aziraphale like his – the body Crowley was creating for him? It wasn’t exactly socially acceptable to be soft and rounded like that, after all, so it might not be that he was overly thrilled with it. He might even be outright embarrassed by it and by what had caused it, might wish to lose it.

Crowley hoped not. He hoped he’d embrace it instead. Of course, this was his fantasy, as it were, he could make it anything and everything he wanted it to be, then change his mind afterwards. But no, he wanted to do it…well, right. What felt right and _appropriate _for the character, the person that Aziraphale at least felt like to Crowley.

And what felt right in the circumstance was that Aziraphale might be a little bit self-conscious about his weight and shape but that he on the whole was quite content with the lifestyle he led and if that led to a softer, rounder shape, then that was alright, too.

So…someone who enjoyed books, cherished them, even, given the way he held what would be the book, and yet wasn’t so far up in his own…mind that he couldn’t enjoy the more corporeal pleasures, such as food. The smile and the soft warmth in the face suggested that kindness was there to be found, in abundance if it was wanted and needed.

It turned the heartache, which was something of a constant companion at this point, into something warmer in turn, as though what he saw, or at least what he imagined, reflected back on him, lighting him up.

As though that smile was not just a smile at the void that lay beyond Crowley’s mental image, or even the ginger himself once he’d transported said smile into reality, but one that was directed at him. Meant for him. That he was _worthy _of such a smile.

Which was – since when did he become that sentimental, anyway? Fucking hell, next step would be bloody Mills & Boon, wouldn’t it?

Despite sneering at himself, the feeling of warmth at the idea that had Aziraphale been a human being rather than a figment given body, albeit a stony one, he might just feel inclined to bestow such a smile upon Crowley didn’t abate.

There were still details to be worked on in the stomach, but it was fine for the moment until it was time to shift to the rifflers and rasps, and he moved up to do the hands, changing the chisel to a smaller one for the smaller work.

Of course, working on the hands meant that he worked on the book, too, and his thoughts returned to contemplate just what kind of book it might be. He could obviously leave it blank but regardless, he wondered what kind of book might interest Aziraphale.

A purely scientific book? Something entirely fictional? It shouldn’t really matter…except that it might tell him something more about his made-up person.

And well, at this point, he might as well embrace the lunacy.

But despite sparing thoughts to what it might be, he didn’t get any clearer image of it. So, he’d just leave it blank and purely indicate that whatever tome it was, it was thick and bound in leather. No poxy little paperback for this angel.

“Figures you’d be a bloody snob about it,” he muttered but it was without any sort of bite.

He only realised that he was actively avoiding going back to work on the face when he moved around to the back and started on the wings.

Due to not so much the relatively limited amount of marble he had to work with – if need be, he could buy more, carve that and add them together later, that was quite common practice when a piece was large enough or you just didn’t have the right size available – but more the fact that they needed support along its way, he had decided that the wings would be folded down to the body, as though in rest. He did not, after everything, want to risk an upright, spread-out position for the wing without proper support, which he had not incorporated into it from the start as would be needed.

Besides, a wing that was resting like that held its own appeal, didn’t it?

But as much as the wings also needed the work, especially given that he’d actually neglected them in comparison to the rest of the body, the knowledge that he was avoiding the face sank in and did not find a comfortable seat at all.

It wasn’t even as though it hadn’t gone well so far. One might even say that it had gone incredibly well so far. So, why was he hesitating? Why was he avoiding it all of a sudden? Hadn’t he been eager to meet the man, angel, whatever?

Yes, he bloody well had, and he still was so. The wings could wait.

Finishing the curve which he was working on, because he was bloody well not going to leave it half-finished like that if he could help it, he then moved back up to the face. Chisel at the ready, mental image in place, he paused for what felt like the umpteenth time.

It was the eyes. That was what made the difference, he realised. What made him hesitant despite his genuine interest in seeing, even eagerness to see, just how Aziraphale’s face would be once it made the trip from Crowley’s mind to stone-solid reality.

They wouldn’t just be a finishing touch; they would be pulling the entire thing together. After all, that was always the case whenever he worked on a sculpture, in whatever medium he chose. The moment he added the eyes, they became…whole.

When they got their eyes, even though they had no actual life in them, there was somebody to stare back. There was a character even if there wasn’t a person.

_When you stare into the abyss, the abyss stares back._

Where the hell had that come from? This wasn’t an abyss, of all the – _what?_

The question then became why he was nervous of that? Why would that matter?

That question he could answer; that he would no longer just have a shape there, a lump of more or less white stone, he would have a character. One that had been made to his wishes, even if they had been filtered through dreams, and was therefore more personal than anything else he had ever worked on.

Also, it wouldn’t be leaving his workshop once it was finished like the rest of them always had. This one would be staying here, looking at him forever. Unless he sold it, of course, but he couldn’t see how he could ever sell it in good conscience, entirely apart from the matter with Gabriel.

If he got it wrong in any way, then…

Then he had failed him.

That thought, innocuous enough on its own, sent a shudder through him that was strong enough to have his hand spasm hard. Unfortunately, it was the hand that held the chisel rather than the hammer and it sent the tool skidding across the surface.

“Fuck!” It was out of his mouth the moment it happened, and he jerked his hand back. But the damage was already done.

No, no, no! **_Fuck,_** no, he didn’t – that didn’t just happen!

_Calm down, you idiot! Breathe. Check what the damage is first. It might be nothing._

Of course, it wouldn’t be nothing!

Even so, he forced himself to breathe, open involuntarily closed eyes and look.

It was…it wasn’t nothing, that was for certain. Far from it. At the same time, though, it wasn’t impossible, he could see that once he calmed down a little further.

He couldn’t fix it all, sadly, but he could lessen the damage. Or perhaps even incorporate it into the finished design.

Yes, of course he could. This was his ruddy job. He was _good_ at it. It wasn’t as though he’d never had a chisel or other tool misbehave on him before, either. He’d sorted those well enough.

There would be a mark, yes, but as long as it wasn’t part of the eye, and it didn’t seem to be, it would be fine.

His angel would look perfect, even if he wasn’t flawless. Crowley would make sure of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That last part surprised me a bit when I'd written it, I have to say. But I liked it, so...  
I meant to have this up yesterday but I almost lost my computer to sudden reboot loop, so I'm glad to be able to upload at all.  
I hope you'll forgive me we have only met statue Aziraphale so far. We will get there, I just...I suppose I had an idea that bloomed. I'm sorry. I'll stop rambling.


	5. A finished statue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley finally finishes the statue but perhaps getting to meet Aziraphale is proving a bit...much for him. After all, it'll only ever be a statue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can only deeply apologise for taking so long again. It's not because I don't want to write or post this, and I'm beyond grateful for the feedback I get on this. December was just a hard month for me to get through.  
Thank you to all who've read it and especially to the kind people who's left feedback. Cliché as it sounds, it really does make an enormous difference.

What emerged was…not entirely what Crowley would’ve expected, he had to admit. It might be a cliché to say it, but he genuinely felt that it was better than what he’d had in his mind.

He’d taken some callipers and marked out where the eyes should be, to make absolutely sure both that he’d gotten it right in terms of proportion and that what he had inadvertently messed up could indeed by covered.

It turned out that, if he gave the face some crows’ feet on either side of the face and the hint of bags underneath the eyes, then there would be no one any the wiser that his tools had skittered and made marks.

To be honest, it wasn’t his normal way of doing things and it certainly did not match up to any other statue he had done before, his clients always desiring smooth, unlined faces that, to be fair, was and had been the standard for a few millennia, as well as matched up with the rest of the more or less epitomic bodies he made.

No, there was one exception and that was the rare time that he was asked to sculpt someone who either existed or had existed. Normally, that only entailed a bust, as full-on whole-body statues of real people were not really in vogue, in as much as statues of people were at all.

_Or perhaps your reputation for making statues of more or less ideals has meant that that’s what you get commissioned for. It’s not as though you can really say you keep up on what goes on in the sculpting community, as it were. Hell, you barely make it out of the workshop for anything other than necessities these days._

The inner voice was sharp and, though he didn’t much want to admit it, rather on point, much like always. He didn’t exactly like the next comment it made, either.

_Not too surprising that you’re going crackers, then, is it? Just a case of which one came first, innit? Hermit or lunatic?_

Why not both simultaneously? he thought back at it, being antagonistic towards it mainly because he could and it made him feel a little bit better, petty though it probably was. Both of them feeding on each other like a bloody ouroboros – no, that was just the one snake, wasn’t it? Two snakes, what was that? Aura? Something like that, anyway.

He’d tried being sociable, though, hadn’t he? Once upon a time when he’d been young. Hadn’t he? It wasn’t as clear in his mind as it had once been but he felt sure that at some point in his life and for a relatively long time, too, his attempts to connect with others had been, if not more successful then at least far more frequent than they were now.

Not that that was difficult, of course, but even before he’d ended up at his current non-interaction, there was a point where he’d put in a whole lot more effort. For all the good it had done, of course.

Perhaps he’d been heading towards that waterfall for even longer than he thought he’d had, and now, if he was to go crazy, he would at least have his very own Harvey with him – one with a physical representation, too.

A sudden thought had him almost adding a pair of rabbit ears to as adornment somewhere, but he thought the better of it before he could do it, which was probably just as well.

He had to admit, though, that the effect of the crows’ feet and the bags added to the face a lot more than it detracted. The eyes were still nowhere near as defined as they would be once finished or even just later on, more shaped…shapes than anything concretely and definitely eyes.

Even so, the lines he’d added to the face increased the character of the one looking back.

It felt as though he was just on the other side of the marble, trapped inside and waiting to get out, released by the chisel and the hammer, brought to life with the riffler and sandpaper. He might’ve once called that daft, ludicrously fanciful, even, and he might still, but it didn’t make it feel any less true.

What was more – and was honestly a bit of a revelation to Crowley as he discovered it – was how true to the character of ‘Aziraphale’ he’d formed in his head such details seemed, even though that image was patchy at best.

It felt as though it was filling in those unknowns, somehow. That of course he would have lines in a face like that. He wasn’t young and he’d experienced quite a few things in his time. But the crows’ feet were more fairly called laugh lines, judging by the tilt of them and the shape of the eyes and eyelids and such. It seemed a face that would’ve had as much reason to smile as to frown or otherwise crinkle up in worry. He was someone who smiled with his eyes as much as his mouth, possibly even more.

Crowley felt his own mouth curve into a smile as he studied his work and what was more, he felt his heart beat a few notches faster. Not a hammering or stuttering. Not even an ache, just something that sent the loveliest kind of warmth spreading throughout his entire body.

If he was real, he’d…well, it would be fair to say that he’d at least have a very large percentage of the people he met just a little bit in love with him, just from that smile alone. Possibly a lot in love with him.

Crowley could only imagine how it might look once he had more than white voids without much definition to the eyelids. Actually, he could imagine that very well but that said, it would still make a lot of difference to see it in the real world.

He paused yet again, breathing deeply.

No more stalling, though. No more hesitation. He was going to do it. Finally see just what his angel looked like, what kind of eyes and face he had.

He was ready.

As he got to work, his whole body and mind focused on the task in front of him, he failed to notice that there was warmth to the marble. Not a lot, not enough to pulse or otherwise make a spectacle. Seeing as marble wasn’t exactly known for its warm properties, however, the fact that there was any warmth radiating from it was something that should’ve given Crowley pause.

It wasn’t as though he was unfamiliar with the material, either.

But he didn’t notice anything. Not even the thoughts that had plagued him before got through now.

Just a bit further and he would see his face properly.

There was a point where he almost chipped off a part of the eyebrow – it would have been a bit, ahem, if it had been a chip off the nose – but he managed to save it again.

Then, finally, he thought he was done.

It very much didn’t feel right that the moment had actually, finally arrived, a not uncommon feeling in such circumstances but that didn’t negate the experience in the slightest and there was a part of him that wanted to keep working, insisting that wasn’t good enough to even think of stepping back from it. Nevertheless, knowing that that voice would remain until he’d corrected it into rubble, he stepped back to look.

It was…

Beautiful. That was what it was, no mincing his words. One of his best pieces of work, so far, even he could admit that without feeling he sounded vain. Almost perfect and entirely fitting for what he had in his mind.

There were still rough patches, still things that needed adjusting and fixing or even plain needed to be done. The wings needed to be more than bulky shapes with the promise of wings in their design – this wasn’t a wing from an art deco gull sculpture, he couldn’t get away with hinting at the details or leaving them out entirely.

A voice, one warmer and gentler than his inner voice normally ever bothered being, suggested that perhaps one day, making such a statue would be a lovely kind of different challenge for him, compared to the classical look he normally, almost exclusively did. It’d be a new experience, at least, and they had made such lovely sculptures in that period as well, even if they’d favoured metals.

He agreed, then blinked in surprise at what he’d just thought. That hadn’t come from him. He didn’t ever remember his normal inner voice sounding like that nor did the occasional other voices that you had in your head, too – he sometimes had the feeling his mind was more a committee with him as the, sometimes hard-pressed, chairman than anything else. But it had been there, clear as anything.

Maybe a bit too clear, all things considered.

Then again, if you were going to hear voices in your head, to have one urging you to try something different within your field was mild to the point of blandness compared to what it could have.

The point of it all, though, was that there was still a lot of work to do if he wanted it almost perfect through and through, but he wasn’t as far off as he’d thought and what he had was…well…

Much as the rest of the body was good and his appreciation of the shape definitely hadn’t waned, it was the face that sold it. Not just in terms of pulling the whole thing together or creating character, but it brought to life, or at least stony corporality, the person that he’d seen in his mind, in his dreams, to a degree that he, if he was completely honest with himself, had never entirely believed he could.

It wasn’t that he lacked confidence in his work or anything like that, but to have something that specific to get right, not to mention that important to him riding on getting it right, that was a whole other kettle of fish.

This was where the preciseness needed for real life people met the looseness afforded by the lack of reference outside mental images and sketches of varying roughness and it could’ve so easily gone wrong. Especially considering his mental state at points, too.

Not that he was necessarily doing all that much better right then, of course.

Anyway…

He’d gotten the smile right, for one. Exactly right, in his eyes as much as on his lips, and it beamed out at the world as though its owner was overjoyed to look at whatever it was that he was seeing.

Something inside of him, and it had to be the ache in his heart and the fact that he hadn’t interacted with living people more than he needed to for what others might call a depressingly long time, made Crowley wish that that smile was directed at him and solely at him.

Which, of course, it would be whenever he looked at the statue and since it wasn’t going out on public display, he would be the only one who saw it, so long as he hid it from whoever came into the workshop.

But that wasn’t what he meant. If Aziraphale had been a living person, that was what he meant. One who chose who he smiled at, then Crowley would give quite a lot to have him smile that way at him.

“Not that you will, eh?” he said, his tone wry and self-deprecating. “Probably just as well you aren’t actually alive because I know I wouldn’t ever get to meet someone like you, never mind having you smile at me like that. Not that you wouldn’t smile at everyone, probably. Not that one, though. Special, innit? ‘s got to be, hasn’t it, what with how you’d otherwise have people swarming around you? Too special for me by half.”

He snorted despite himself. “So good thing I made you up, eh?”

That he knew he was being self-deprecating did not do much to change his mood or how he felt about the facts.

If you were going to bring your little fantasy to life, he supposed there was no point in settling for something achievable, really. Not when you were aiming for your ideal. Then you might as well go the…what was the expression? Whole hog? Something like that.

He tried to shake off that feeling, knowing it for the useless one it was, and just enjoy what he’d made.

Apart from the smile, there was the softness of the hair, with a light fluffiness that belied the stony texture, the light suggestion of lines and then…then there were the eyes, of course. That was smiling as well, yes, but more than that, he was impressed with how he’d managed to get a light and a character in there. A depth that went beyond the normal obvious relief effect that three-dimensional sculpture invariably brought and spoke of the depth of character hidden beneath.

That said, they still conveyed the warmth the smile spoke of as well as the inner light, daft as that sounded for something as unfeeling and impersonal as white rock.

Yes, he could most certainly be proud of the statue he was making.

That his heart was one enormous mess of conflicting emotions, to which the sense of belonging had joined along with a stronger sense of yearning, was another matter entirely.

He took another look, to access what still needed to be done. It was nothing to do with how he wanted to bask in the face of his angel for as long as he possibly could.

Of course, it wasn’t.

He sighed, somewhat heavily, and closed his eyes, trying to get a grip on things inside his heart. To at least not let it overwhelm him.

Then he couldn’t help but smile. He looked back up at the lovely face staring out into the world.

“Glad to finally meet you, Aziraphale,” he said out loud. “Took you long enough to get here but you were worth the wait.”

He moved right up close to the statue, close enough that had it had the ability to move of its own accord, it would’ve taken a step backwards.

“How did I get you that right?” he wondered after a moment of silence. “Because you are right. You’re almost perfectly right, like you should be, and…fuck it, you shouldn’t be. Not to this degree. Or I shouldn’t be able to know whether you were or not because you’re a figment rather than someone I’ve known and forgotten about. A dream and nothing more.”

He brought a hand up and, forgetting for the moment about what the oils produced by a human body could do to marble, he laid it against the soft-looking, hard stone that was the cheek.

That it wasn’t cold, in fact barely cool, beneath his palm he didn’t notice.

“A beautiful dream, though,” he murmured and, acting on what he would later dismiss as just a spike in his lunacy and nothing else, most definitely _not_, he leaned in a little further and pressed his lips against the immovable marble ones.

It was light and it was brief but even so, when he pulled back and realised what he’d just done, his eyes widened, and he groaned.

“Kissing a statue…bloody buggering fuck,” he cursed under his breath. It wasn’t even as though he had the excuse of being drunk or anything, either.

Why? What on earth had possessed him to do that?

Well, he knew that, didn’t he? It wasn’t even as though it was a difficult deduction to make, merely one that he didn’t much want to make.

“I need to get laid,” he mumbled to himself.

Ideal or no, fantasy or no, he must really have it bad if he was prepared to not just caress but outright kiss the statue he was making, on the lips, as if it was a lover. That needed to be fixed, sooner rather than later.

Trouble was, there was nobody he knew that he could call for that. Of course, he could always hit the town and try to find someone there. It wasn’t as though he needed to form any sort of deep connection with them, was it? Didn’t even need to know them, just that they were turned on and willing as he was.

The latter probably posed the bigger problem, but he’d sort that.

_Close your eyes and think of someone else, eh?_

_Would you ever so kindly shut the fuck **up** already?_

Resolutely not looking at the statue now, he turned on his heel and headed upstairs. To change into something appropriately alluring. Something that’d make sure he’d pull someone. That would satisfy whatever craving this, this _thing _had come from.

Yes, that was it. All he needed to do was get laid, then he’d be able to work on the statue – and the others he’d neglected just a little, not all that much, telling himself he could afford to, he had plenty of time left – without any issue. And the sooner he was done with Aziraphale, in both senses, the sooner he could turn his attention back to the work that made him money and didn’t do his head in one way or the other.

A clean slate, really. One where he didn’t feel so starved for human affection, unconsciously or not, that he’d begun to fantasise about and yearn for a figment of his imagination that he’d brought into the world the only way he could.

God, yes, he needed that.

He thundered back down the stairs in the flashiest, most alluring outfit he owned, grabbed his keys and was out the door, into the gathering night, slamming it shut behind him. Without so much as a glance at poor Aziraphale.

* * *

By the time Crowley returned to the workshop, it was late. So late, in fact, that it had tipped the bucket right into early.

The fact that he had been out that long would suggest that he had been rather successful in his endeavour and indeed, he had succeeded in finding someone who was willing to sleep with him. It hadn’t even taken as long to find someone he’d find alluring as he would’ve expected it to, what with his being severely out of practice by this point, nor to talk them into it.

In fact, it had been as much the other convincing Crowley as the other way around.

They’d even made it to a bed somewhere rather than a wall or a cubicle somewhere in whatever random night club he’d ended up. Had it been his partner’s bed? He thought it had but he wasn’t entirely sure. It might’ve been a hotel room for all he knew.

Not that he hadn’t been paying attention. He just…hadn’t taken notice of the kind of décor there’d been in the room, that was all. There’d been other priorities.

All in all, it had been anything but a bad experience.

So, the question remained; why the ever-loving fuck did he feel this miserable after it all? By all accounts, he ought to be over the bleeding moon, having gone out for the first time in absolute ages _and _managing to hook up with someone, too, and it was successful all the way to completion, as it were.

He’d even had his phone taken and a number written in it, signposting ‘call me’ so loudly that even he couldn’t have missed it.

In a way, it was almost surreal how well it had gone, all things considered. No, not almost. Definitely surreal and yet, there was…unquestionable proof that it had happened.

And yet…yet he couldn’t deny that instead of making him feel cocky or buoyant, or even relieved or just plain tired out but in a wonderful way, all he felt was this terrible leaden feeling, which included misery. As though all the pleasure had turned to aches and voids. To ashen, dull pain, almost, hyperbolic though that really sounded.

More than that, he felt as though he’d done something wrong. Had somehow failed something, betrayed someone just a little bit and it only twisted the pain a little more in his gut.

As if that wasn’t enough, it wasn’t even regret after the fact. Or aches or whatever. That would’ve been frustrating and bad enough on its own but no, of course it hadn’t only been then.

It had felt wrong even when he’d been in the middle of it, where he was supposed to just let himself get swept away in the moment and _enjoy_. Where he should’ve been focused purely on pleasure, his and his partner’s, the thought that he shouldn’t be doing this kept bumping up against it, insistent when ignored and unable to be squashed.

On top of it all, there was a countering dull pain of a hangover headache coming on. It wasn’t even as though he’d drunk all that much, he shouldn’t be hungover from it!

All he felt like he needed to make this thing complete was to see Gabriel lurking around outside his workshop when he got back.

Luckily for him, his morose thought didn’t come to fruition and the street was thankfully empty when he reached it.

Unlocking the front door, he almost shouted out that he was home. He remembered himself in time, however, and in light of why, well part of the reason why, he’d gone out in the first place it really wouldn’t fit.

What he ought to do was go straight upstairs, keel over into bed and sleep it off. For the next day or three. That sounded like a good plan.

But he still had work to do. He was supposed to be back at working on the stuff he’d actually been commissioned to do. There might be money in the account but if he neglected what he’d been promising to sculpt, then word would spread – this was quite the small industry, after all, it could hardly not spread – that he wasn’t reliable and then…

Then he’d be in the situation Gabriel had threatened him with when he’d first refused, only it would’ve been a situation of his own making, which would make it feel worse.

Somewhat drunk though he was, not to mention confused and angry and frustrated with himself, he couldn’t bring himself to believe that this was somehow Gabriel’s doing. That he’d arranged it so that Crowley would end up working on the statue and get in a state that was a detriment to his career.

He simply didn’t believe the man had the brains for that sort of thing, pure and simple.

So, back to work it had to be.

Working right now, however, when his head still felt as though a metal ball had gotten in and was rolling around his skull and his vision was through slits and _then _through darkened glasses, would be detrimental to say the least, and he had already had one mishap on –

No. He was not going to think about that statue. Not…well, perhaps not ever but certainly not for the foreseeable future. Until he had gotten himself back in check, fully, made sure that the yearning for touch had been satisfied by tonight’s little…escapade, then he wasn’t going to think about it or look at it, much less work on it.

_Why, then, were you glad that Gabriel wasn’t there? _

Apparently not even telling it to bugger the hell off was enough to shut it off for long but then, that was probably the point of it, wasn’t it?

_If it doesn’t matter anymore, if it’s okay for you to abandon it – _

He wasn’t!

_For the time being, you are, yes. If that’s suddenly okay with you, after just a little setback and despite all that you have gone through to get this done, then why aren’t you just calling Gabriel so he can come and pick up the statue?_

Shut up.

The voice pressed on, with the heedless momentum and persistence that only our own minds can truly manage in such circumstances.

_Surely that’d kill two birds with one stone, though? You’d get your peace of mind back, free of the risk of going over that insanity waterfall, he’d get what he wanted and get off your back. Of course, he might be back to pester you later on, but for now, he’d be out of your hair and –_

I said, **shut up!**

He was clutching his head and not entirely because of the oncoming hangover.

Fucking hell, he needed to sleep. Not for days, he couldn’t afford that. He was behind as it was, and he really needed to go back into working but at least for a few hours, just enough to burn this one off.

Didn’t feel like a hangover headache, anyway, but he didn’t know what else to do.

First, though, he just…he needed to…to assess what needed doing. Otherwise he’d, he’d think about it at least half a dozen times while trying to sleep and he’d end up coming down here later to find out what –

As he’d thought about all of this, he had, without quite realising, made his way deeper into the workshop, doing just what he’d said to himself he needed to do.

Which was good. Except…

Except for the fact that in front of him was…nothing.

There wasn’t supposed to be nothing. Something very _something _should be there in front of him. A thing in marble. Full size. Statue, that was it. Why had that word suddenly disappeared? It wasn’t as though he was really all that drunk anymore, if at all.

Perhaps it was to distract himself, momentarily though it was, that what was nothing that was supposed to be something was not just a statue, which would’ve been bad enough, honestly.

It was the statue of Aziraphale.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did consider whether I ought to end the chapter at where Crowley goes out but that would leave it a relatively short chapter, which I didn't think was fair. So, I made you wait another few days instead. Go me?  
You may have noticed I did change the rating and added some tags. I hope they're more accurate now. Fingers crossed.  
I'll try hard not to make you wait this long again.


	6. Meeting at last

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley, not in the best frame of mind to deal with everything, well, less so than normal, tries to piece together what has happened to his statue.  
The real answer he isn't prepared for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You have all been incredibly kind with your feedback and support and I can't thank you all enough. It really, genuinely makes a ton of difference and helps me to keep writing on it.  
I can only apologise it's taken this long again. :(

He looked around, in an odd but not uncommon attempt to see if it was his brain playing tricks on him somehow, though he honestly couldn’t see how. It wasn’t as though he was in the habit of moving a heavy block of marble, after all, and he’d had it here since he’d begun working on it.

Despite that, despite the weight of the thing and the logic that it couldn’t just up and _leave, _even in the hours that had lapsed since Crowley had gone out, there was nothing. Not a bit of it, whole or fragmented, dust, even. Just a bare patch where it should have been.

That removed the, admittedly very unlikely, explanation that someone had gotten in here and had smashed the statue to pieces, a thought that sent his heart into his throat and sent black spot of dizziness in front of his eyes for a moment the instant it arrived in his head.

_What about having just stolen it? You don’t go to all the trouble of breaking in to just smash the one statue, do you? And they might’ve taken the dust with them – you can’t tell how much of what’s on the floor is from you working. But if you’re going to vandalise something like this to this degree, why be that pinpoint specific with the statues? It can’t be that they didn’t have time for more as there’s still the issue of specificity, what with how far back it is and that they seem to have obliterated it, not just vandalised it. No, stolen makes more sense in that regard._

That wasn’t to say that stealing it made a whole lot more sense. Still, though, it was probably the best, or at least the most plausible, explanation that he had.

A statue could _not _go walkabout on its own, after all, no matter what that episode of Doctor Who had implied – which also talked of human-shaped aliens with two hearts, a time-travel machine and reincarnation on the flatpack-plane, so its reality was flawed to start with – and it had not been pulverised.

Had it just been moved, then? He supposed it could’ve been but that still ran into the same issues; what would be the point, quite apart from how it had been moved, and how had the people made it into the workshop? Especially without breaking the lock.

_That last bit’s what the theft hinges on, too, though, isn’t it?_

But the theft at least might have a _point_ which was more than could be said for the other ideas.

Feeling enormously puzzled if not outright confused, not to mention angry, unsettled and, most importantly and quite severely, guilty about it all, Crowley looked about him, searching for any further indication of just what had happened.

There were no scuff marks on the floor. At least there were no new ones; the flooring was hardwearing to say the least and the marks he’d managed to make during his years there were so familiar to him that he was able to pick out any deviations and new additions.

Of course, if they’d been organised enough to get in here without breaking and entering – while not in the clearest frame of mind at the time, admittedly, he was sure he remembered that he’d had to unlock the front door when he’d got home – _and _get a full-sized statue out of the workshop the same way, then they would’ve been clever enough to find a way to get it out without leaving any scuff marks.

No, that didn’t track. There weren’t any other ways out of the building. This wasn’t that kind of industrial building with multiple big doors that something could be taken out of. It would’ve been nice if that was the case, if nothing else, then in terms of getting the rock moved about when it arrived, but all there was were the relatively big doors facing the streets, with the smaller door in it.

Unlocking and then locking the door behind them? More plausible but where would they find a key? His was the old one he’d been given when he’d bought the place from an estate agent whose expression could’ve benefited the creaking hinges on the door. It was hardly a complex one, but he didn’t think it was generic enough for them to be able to easily copy.

Whether someone had heard or seen anything, he discounted immediately. It wasn’t exactly deserted but the few people living around here was more concerned with minding their own business than getting involved.

He wasn’t even interesting enough for gossip and especially not of the right kind, if you could call it that.

Moving further out, he looked around, hoping that he’d moved the statue and had just forgotten about it. He had no idea how he would’ve forgotten, but he’d rather take a mysterious lapse in memory than someone stealing just one statue. The one statue that had caused him the most psychological strife in his entire career, not to mention the most emotional attachment. To pick that one, which wasn’t even the most finished one of the few he had around the shop right at that time, was…a little too odd, to say the least.

And that brought him straight back to who would do such a thing.

_Well, who could you possibly think of that had an interest in stealing a statue? Not just any statue, either, but the one of Aziraphale. _The inner voice paused for dramatic effect, which Crowley couldn’t decide whether was just odd or outright worrying. _The one that he thinks he’s commissioned you for and which he evidently will not stop to get at._

He couldn’t _know _that it was Gabriel, though. It might still just be a coincidence or some opportunistic arse –

Doesn’t that phrase fit the berk rather well? And why exactly are you playing angel’s advocate? With him, of all people, too. It doesn’t make any sense otherwise – and he has shown that he’s willing to go further.

No, he hadn’t. Not yet. He’d threatened it, that wasn’t the same thing.

_What about the phone calls? Showing up here unannounced –_

Yeah, because he didn’t pick up the phone. Had in fact blocked him.

_Unannounced and uninvited,_ the inner voice continued, undaunted, _not taking no for an answer until he had no choice but to leave. Who’s to say he didn’t spot something inside the workshop while he was looking for you? Perhaps he spotted something he liked, something that he was looking for and had expected to see – and get. Something that he was quite happy to, at a later date, break into here and steal. If you weren’t going to accommodate him or be swayed by threats, then…_

Oh, yeah, so he knew when he went out now, was that it? Just happened to know when he would be gone for hours because he was on the pull and actually managed to do so?

_Have you forgotten what kind of city you live in?_

No. No, he did not have access to the CCTV.

Gabriel was just an everyday, run-of-the-mill albeit top shelf quality berk that had managed to get himself into some kind of job that he at least perceived as important. A dickwad who couldn’t comprehend the possibility that he could ever be wrong about anything, yes, but without any actual power behind him. He was not important enough to have access to London’s CCTV, apart from the fact that it didn’t extend to this street.

How else did he just happen to find the perfect time to nick it? And it was nicking it, there was no doubt about it. As long as he hadn’t paid for it –

Crowley whipped out his phone to check whether any money had gone in in the last day or so, just to be sure. Not that he still wasn’t livid or wouldn’t want to get his statue back, or that it couldn’t still be considered stealing because they had no written contract on the commission, for obvious reasons, but it’d make it more of a headache-inducing hassle to sort.

No. Nothing. Or rather, some money had gone in, but it had been from a regular client by the name of Sable – who would rather shave his precious beard and go on an eating binge than have anything to do with someone like Gabriel.

So…if it was the cockwaffle, then he’d thought his right to it so firm that he didn’t have to pay for it, either.

Unless it was paid for in cash, of course.

Crowley moved over to his desk to check whether there were any wads of cash or checks or_ anything_ that could count as payment on there and, when he found nothing, moved onto other surfaces with the same result.

All the while he’d been going through this search in his mind and the deductions and reasoning that followed, he’d had to contend with the emotions that were writhing and seething within him, too.

One of the largest ones was that of betrayal and the associated guilt. He’d felt that one previously but the fact that he’d gone out after more or less trying to call it quits with the dreams and fantasies that he’d projected onto the statue and had gotten laid was one thing. To then come home and find out that not only had he been burgled, it was the very same statue that he’d been agonising over…it was fair, and probably something of an understatement to say that it made the metaphorical knife twist further in his gut, hard and unrelenting.

There was also the rather keen sense of loss. It wasn’t so much that he’d lost something expensive, which he had in terms of how much raw marble cost not to mention the added value of an almost finished statue, but had more to do with losing, well, losing the statue he had such an attachment to.

Losing the connection that he’d had to the mysterious figure in his dreams, the one his heart had been aching so much for ever since that first dream. Forever now out of his reach.

He found himself whispering, “I’m sorry”, into the silence of the room as he continued his search. Not just the once, either.

_You could always make another one. It’s not as though that was the only piece of marble left in the world, not even of that size and quality, and hey, you have a clearer image of what he ought to look like now. It should be a piece of –_

No!

No, not that. Definitely not that. He wasn’t going to make a, a _replica. _That wasn’t…that would spoil the whole point.

_The point of what? It’s a statue, however much you’re attached to it. An object, a dead thing._

No, it – well, yes, it was. Technically. What it was not, apart from all the things he’d inadvertently imbued it with, was something off a production line. Even if he wanted to make another Aziraphale – and just the thought of ‘another Aziraphale’ made something in his gut twist _hard _– there was no guarantee that he could.

Yes, he knew that having made him solid, if not outright flesh, had given a clearer and more concrete, or marble, idea of what he looked like. But to recreate that would…well, it would look like what it was.

A replica. A _copy._

Almost like when an artist that used canvas took a photograph of someone and painted a portrait of them from that. It would look like the person, yes, if the person was skilled. It might even be an incredible piece of art in its own way, but it would still be filtered through the first portrait of the photograph and not look quite as flowing and natural as the first one would.

Not as _alive_, for lack of a more encompassing and fitting word.

So, even if he could make it exactly like the previous one that he’d done and he wasn’t sure that he could because he was human, not a robot, it wouldn’t be the same.

Besides, there was only one Aziraphale.

_Are you honestly – you recreated him once already! From a single image that was vague and also entirely in your head! How’s that not a copy, then?_

Apart from the fact that then everything becomes a copy and that’s far too fucking existential for this time of the morning, even though I’m arguing with my own bleeding mind about – fucking hell!

He had to stop. Stop moving, stop looking, stop _thinking. _Just for the moment because right then and there, everything hurt.

As he stood there, his eyes screwed shut, trying to block out everything, a thought, able to pass through now the throng was gone, came to him, utterly ridiculous, which explained why it hadn’t gotten through before.

What if Aziraphale had…gone? As in, up and left on his own?

And he really _had_ gone barking mad, now, hadn’t he? It was a bleeding _statue, _for God knew what time he’d had to think that. Had to remind himself of it, for crying out loud, as though it was a difficult concept to grasp and keep hold of in his mind. His – _its _feet were not capable of separating, much less move around on their own.

And even if he was crazy enough to believe that it could _somehow _move around on its own like some sort of absurd life size chess piece – and he felt cheated somehow that when he went loony, it wasn’t even _interesting, _just strange and ridiculous – there was the question of where the hell it would go.

It wouldn’t be going up the stairs, that was for certain. They’d crack under the pressure, wouldn’t they?

Why the hell was he entertaining the notion in the first place? It was insane!

_Like you’re a picture of sanity right now_? asked his inner voice. _And let’s just be blunt here, the reason you’re considering is because that’s about all the explanation there’s left. At least all that you can think of, which granted, isn’t the same at all, is it?_

But it wasn’t an explanation at all, was it? It was a fever dream, nothing more.

He slumped against the desk, eyes still screwed shut and the heels of his hands against his temples, the solidity of the furniture being a major factor in keeping him remotely upright.

Fuck, he was tired. So tired.

Couldn’t he have picked a better time to go nuts, at the very least? Before he’d had to do that exhibition in Rome, for instance. That would’ve been nice, to claim insanity to get out of that hellscape? Only redeemable thing about it had been the oysters and even then, scarfing down oysters lost a good deal of its glamour when you were basically doing it on your own.

Oh, there’d been other people around, obviously, but that was not the same thing at all. It more resembled the individual mountains in a mountain range, in that they were next to each other but didn’t exactly choose to be and were incapable of leaving before the event was over.

Except mountains didn’t spit inane babble at each other. Not even when it was delivered in a prettier package such as Italian.

His knees began to buckle under him, and it was only due to his height that he ended sitting on the desk rather than slumped against it and even then, it was a close and precarious thing. He had a headache and on top of that, his brain hurt.

Perhaps he should just call Gabriel.

_Oh, yes? And accuse him outright, is that it? Make him make good on those threats he delivered when he first got here? Do you really want to smash your whole life – _

No. Of course, he wasn’t going to do _that. _Crazy did not equal stupid, did it? Actually, it might, but that wasn’t the point.

But he might ask him to take good care of the statue – there was no way he was going to let the berk know its name, he didn’t deserve to speak it – and see what kind of reaction he got. The cockwaffle might feign innocence but Crowley really didn’t think he would, not so much the brains for it as the common sense to see that it wasn’t something to easily confirm. That it wasn’t something you confessed to have done.

Then again, he might think that he was just retrieving what was his. Probably would, all things told.

If he genuinely didn’t have it, then…well, he’d have to file a report with the police, hope that they gave a shit and would actually do something about it – and that in the meantime, nobody thought to vandalise it. That would just put the bloody tin lid on it, wouldn’t it?

Somehow, though, he knew that they wouldn’t. Not if they’d taken the trouble to drag it all the way out of the workshop.

‘I’m so sorry, Aziraphale_’, _he thought, his insides twisting and his heart aching as he stared unseeing at the floor. ‘I’ve failed you, one way or the other and I’m sorry. I don’t deserve to have you, do I? Not if I’ve gone around the bend and perhaps not even if I haven’t. I don’t know where you’ve gone but wherever it is, it’s probably better than this place, here, with me.’

He didn’t realise that he’d in fact spoken all of that out loud, though in a low, almost desolate tone of voice. Nor that he fell into something of a stupor as his body slumped further, the lack of a proper sleep in addition to all the rest that he’d gone through beginning to collect on its debts.

The precarious seat on the desk toppled and he slid down it. Collapsed was probably a more accurate term, really, and by the time his skinny arse hit the floor, he was well on his way down into sleep.

It wouldn’t be a comfortable sleep, not even with exhaustion acting as a shield, guilt and heartache combining to create fantastic scenarios on the cave wall of his sleeping mind.

Fantastic does not have to mean wonderful, after all.

Soft, pleasantly cool fingers brushed against a temple gently, reverently, to move a lock of dark yet fiery red hair out of the way. It tangled briefly with the temple of the sunglasses but was coaxed away without any real issue.

The fingers then trailed across a defined cheek almost as though something would break if more force was applied.

Crowley leaned into the contact unconsciously, not even otherwise stirring.

“Whatever shall I do with you?” was said softly into the stillness of the workshop. The amount of reproach in the sentence was drowned by the fondness and quiet but fierce joy almost bursting from the words.

There was no reply. Crowley slept on, unaware of what was going on and what was in front of him. He did seem a little less troubled in his sleep, though.

A few more moments passed in silence.

Then a kiss was planted on his cheek, just as sweet and gently as the fingers had been, before the lips pulled away and an arm slid underneath bony knees while another slid between the wood of the desk and the black-clad back.

Once in place, Crowley was lifted, with an ease that belied the fact that for all his skinniness, he was still a full-grown man. His head lolled against the place where a soft shoulder met a broad-ish chest while his feet dangled freely.

Just as easily as he’d been picked up, he was carried from where he’d fallen asleep, up the stairs, which creaked only a little, and into his little flat above.

A pause there to take in the sparseness of it and the familiarity that came with that sparseness.

There was a small huff, of amusement more than anything.

Then Crowley was carried the rest of the way to his bed where he was laid down carefully. At that, he did stir, mumbling something and reaching out feebly, but soon enough fell back into a deeper sleep. The duvet was pulled up and over him, tucked in but not before his sunglasses were removed and placed on the nightstand. His clothes otherwise stayed on, however.

Another kiss, this time on his forehead and more lingering than the first, though it was still relatively brief.

Then he was left entirely alone to sleep.

When he woke, it was with a start that jolted him into a sitting position.

What had happened? Where was he? Who was asking?

It took a few but crowded moments to get things sorted enough that he felt fairly confident he knew at least the answer to the last two questions.

As for the first one, however, he was somewhat more at sea.

After a few moments, things did start to come back to him, much as he retroactively didn’t wish them to. What did not return, not even in bits and pieces, was any recollection of how he’d gotten from the workshop up to the flat, much less how he’d tucked himself in like that.

That wasn’t his main concern, however, much as it was puzzling and, honestly, just a little bit unsettling. The last part was mainly because though he did remember scoring the night before, he also remembered it hadn’t been here. Therefore, there’d be no one to do it for him, and he did, in fact, vaguely remember being tucked in.

He also remembered, somewhat more clearly, that he’d slumped against the side of his desk where he’d fallen sleep, not in his bed.

So…who was there with him? Were they still here? Why would they still be here? How had they gotten in?

Shit – had he left the door unlocked? One thing was someone breaking and entering without actually breaking but if he’d been stupid enough to forget that –

He thought he heard a clattering from downstairs, as if a tool fell onto the floor, a noise that he was incredibly familiar with, to say the least, even from this kind of distance.

So, there _was _someone there!

All thoughts banished from his mind for the moment, including the rather unwelcome one about if it was a burglar it would have to be a particularly creepy one to tuck him in, he threw off the duvet. Not noticing that he was still in the clothes he’d worn out, far too flashy for daytime viewing, to put it politely, he got his limbs enough under his control to bolt through his flat.

The stairs, he thundered back down, hoping to either scare away whoever it was – despite his lanky frame and ginger hair, he’d had to hold his own more than once in his life and could be quite intimidating when he wanted to be – or at least have the element of them being startled and unprepared.

_Yeah, because you announcing your presence to whoever the hell it is, that’s definitely going to give you the advantage of surprise._

If they were stupid enough to still be here, when they’d had enough time to steal whatever they’d been after and leave – and he was not going to touch the thought that they seemed to have at least assisted him up the stairs and helped make him comfortable under the covers, not with a ten-foot barge pole – then they couldn’t be that bright.

They weren’t going to be unaware that he was in the building, put it like that.

What he was going to do once he was down there, in case that they weren’t scared away, he hadn’t quite solidified in his head, if at all. But it didn’t matter. He would deal with that when he got to it.

_Which will be in only a few seconds, so you’d better be quick._

He wasn’t going to shout; he knew that much. Nor was he going to attack them, not unless he was forced to. Instead, he would –

If he had any plans, solid or not, in his head, they went right out the moment he made it to the bottom and saw the intruder.

In fact, all thoughts that had managed to stay in his head screamed as they tumbled into the void which had just opened inside his mind. Nothing escaped from that void as he stared and stared, his eyes showing him what shouldn’t be there. What _couldn’t _be there.

He felt an irrational urge to rub his eyes, hard. Rub them hard enough that they either took the hint or he could be convinced that they’d stopped working at some point between waking up and now, collapsing in on themselves without informing him.

His thoughts vaulted themselves out of the void after a few long moments of eternity and seemed to attempt to make up for what they’d missed by resuming at top speed, careening along.

That was it. If he’d thought he’d been going around the bend before, he had not only finished turning that corner, he was positively spinning.

Because there, right in front of him, sitting at his desk, absorbed in something or other, though it looked like a book, was what he would’ve said, if he didn’t know it for the fata morgana that it was, was Aziraphale.

It had to be someone who just looked like him, though. After all, hadn’t Crowley so many times since he’d had that first time thought he’d seen something that resembled the vague image in his mind? It would stand to reason that there would be someone that would fill the brief, as it were.

Not to this extent, though. It wasn’t a vague resemblance or even a fairly good one that could easily pass for the real thing if you squinted a bit and looked at it on its side.

This was a dead ringer for the image in his head and the statue that he’d crafted, and which had just gone missing, down to the same, outdated clothes and the soft tufts of curly hair on his head. Curls which an irrational and small part of Crowley’s brain mused was quite a bit whiter than he’d thought they would be.

It had to be someone pulling a prank on him. Seeing the statue, taking it and then dressing someone up like what they’d taken. That was the only explanation, if he didn’t want to think himself more than ready for the sanitorium just yet.

But who would that someone be and why would they do it? He could possibly answer the first, but he’d struggle to find a plausible answer to the second.

_This type of mind game’s a bit sophisticated for someone like Gabriel, too, isn’t it? Someone who thinks blunt mention of other skills counts as a subtle and clever kind of intimidation won’t think of something as elaborate as that, and it’s not even that elaborate._

Why else, though? Because it had to be a joke of one sort or the other. Not one that was remotely funny, of course, but jokes like that on your expense weren’t known for that, were they?

He must’ve made a noise, even though he felt like a pillar of salt at that moment. Or, given that he’d definitely made noise as he’d come down the stairs, the apparition in front of him had just decided to finally acknowledge the world around him.

Whatever the case, the man’s head lifted from where he had been engaged in reading and gazed directly at Crowley.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> He is finally here! Was it too little after all the waiting?   
I'm sorry it took this long, hopefully it's been worth the wait. I've still got a bit of story on this here, though, because this...bloomed on me. Big time, it seems. But there's been some progress now, eh? Yay?


	7. Impossible? You keep using that word...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley and Aziraphale finally meet, face to face, but Crowley has a hard time coming to terms with the fact that this is indeed what, who, he thinks it is. Because a statue coming to life, that's impossible.  
Isn't it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stupid everything, I almost lost the document with this on it, I did actually have it finished earlier. Thankfully I've found the document again, so...here you go. Better late than never, I suppose :) Thank you to everyone for your patience.  
I would say sorry for the reference in the chapter title but I'm not, so...

If the ginger had thought that those eyes had been something when they’d been made of marble, that they’d sent his heart beating a few notches faster previously, it couldn’t hold a candle to the way it beat now that they were made of flesh and…whatever else eyes were made up of.

For one thing, marble couldn’t capture the spectacle that was the colour of them. That might sound both sappy and more than a little hyperbolic, but it was nevertheless true, at least to Crowley, and really, did it need to be true for anyone else for it to be true for him?

They were blue but they appeared, at first glance, green. This was – and Crowley would later be surprised he noticed it not only because of the distance between them but the state of his mind – because they had quite a large bit that was a changing shade of brown, which blended with the blue and created a muted kaleidoscope, sort of.

It ought to have made them washed out or indecipherable but instead, they were the kind that made you want to get in closer, to see whether what you thought you saw was genuinely there. That and they, even though they were merely looking at Crowley, seemed like they were sparkling in genuine joy.

But it didn’t…he shouldn’t be feeling that because this wasn’t his statue. This was just an intruder and someone like that had no reason to smile at him like. Not unless they were trying to get out of repercussions for entering and there were easier ways of doing that.

It didn’t make any sense.

What he said next, as the very first thing, didn’t make any sense, either. Nor did the way he continued to smile at him.

“There you are. I was beginning to worry.”

Worry? A possible burglar and definite intruder claimed that he was worried about Crowley. What the actual hell?

“Where else should I be?” was what came out of his mouth. Which wasn’t what he’d meant to say, not exactly. It would do, though, mainly because he feared that what else might come out right then would be something quite different altogether and might be incredibly embarrassing, to boot.

“No, of course. Quite right. You should be here.”

There was an emphasis on that last sentence that seemed…well, odd seemed par for the course, really, so perhaps ‘incongruous’ was a better term. Why should the, the impostor care about where he should be? If anything, he should’ve been hoping that Crowley wouldn’t be here.

Then again, he would have had plenty of time to bugger off while the ginger was sleeping and he hadn’t taken it, so there had to be something else at play.

Oh, fuck, this was too much to think about, and it wasn’t as though he hadn’t had enough on his plate already. Or had the energy to cope with it, despite having just woken.

But he had to, didn’t he? One way or the other, he had to pull himself together and deal with it.

He took a deep breath that was only slightly shaky, noting in the back of his mind that ‘Aziraphale’ was quite happy to sit there and wait for him. As though this was perfectly normal, just another meeting between people who knew each other well.

It wasn’t. It really, really wasn’t.

And the knowledge that he, if this was the genuine Aziraphale – just the notion that there could be such a thing was ludicrous but never mind – would absolutely love for that to be the case didn’t help a great deal, either.

“Who are you?” he said, and he was quite proud of the way his voice came out, without a hint of croak, rasp or any other such things. It was all entirely steady, or so he would’ve said.

That he should probably rather have asked what the bleeding hell the man was doing here instead didn’t occur to him at the time, despite the ramble of his thoughts earlier, or perhaps precisely because of them.

The intruder blinked in puzzlement and his smile faltered for a moment.

“I would’ve thought you’d know that already,” he said and if Crowley didn’t know better, he would’ve said there was a small but nevertheless audible hint of hurt in that voice, too.

Pushing the feeling of guilt at having caused that out of his mind, quite firmly, telling himself that it was just acting, the sculptor said, “Look, I’m really not in the mood for games or other shit right now. Who the hell are you and why are you in my workshop? There’s nothing here of any value.”

Well, at least he got around to the question.

The smile returned at that, not as strong as before, and dammit all, he wasn’t supposed to feel any kind of relief at seeing it return.

“On that score, I’m afraid I do have to disagree, quite strongly.”

“Really?” Crowley asked and his anger made it a little easier to ask the questions, shielding the other emotions at least to some extent. “Then why are you still here, reading, when you could’ve buggered off with what you think is valuable while I slept? Some burglar you are.”

“Really, dear boy, your language as always does leave – “

The blond – not Aziraphale, _not_ Aziraphale – paused then, something seeming to hit him. Then his mouth opened in a small ‘o’ of surprise and indignation.

“I’m no burglar!” he burst out, indignation also lacing his voice. “How on earth can you even think that?”

“How? How about the fact that you’re sitting here, in my workshop, a complete stranger that I didn’t invite in at any point and you’ve just admitted that there’s things in here that you find valuable.”

That makes me an intruder with an appreciation for fine art at most,” the other countered and though he still sounded indignant, it had softened. “I have no intention of taking anything of yours, dear.”

Again, that endearment. Why? It was something his aunt and his nan would say – for some reason, his mother didn’t share that particular affliction, of that word or anything similar – but to hear a man say it was…rarer, at least.

If it had been ‘love’, it’d have made…at least more sense. Not a whole lot but more than ‘dear’ did, at least.

Still, it somehow kind of fitted Azi – no!

No, it _didn’t, _and this was _not_ Aziraphale. He might look like him, uncannily much, but he wasn’t the statue. That was a physical impossibility, after all. Even if he was the one that Crowley had seen at some point, which his mind had then turned into a dream and a mental image of yearning, that was not him. That was to say, this man just bore a strong resembling to the one who’d inadvertently inspired him.

Or perhaps this guy was sent by Gabriel. Perhaps this was who he was meant to sculpt…but why not just say that, then? And why wait until now to send him? Impatient wanker that he was, Gabriel wouldn’t be waiting that long, especially not when he’d called so much and had been around, presumably to ‘collect’, i.e. steal, the statue.

“Are you alright?” his intruder suddenly asked, sounding concerned.

Why was he asking? Why would he be concerned? There was nothing –

His vision did something funny, then, something between double vision and black spots that sent him dizzy, and he had to take a step backwards, one which was somewhat stumbling.

Before he could take another step to steady himself from that, if that would even be enough, he felt hands on his arms, gripping just firm enough and steadying him.

Grateful despite himself, he nevertheless immediately tried to pull away. He didn’t need help, and he certainly didn’t need it from some, some imposter like this.

However, the blond held fast and despite his somewhat rounded and softened shape, he was able to not just support Crowley but also withstand his attempts to pull away.

“Get off,” Crowley growled, though it might have come out as a grumble instead, he wasn’t entirely sure.

“I’m afraid I can’t.”

His intruder held on and more than that, he also started to pull. Gently but even so, with a strength and persistence that belied his shape and his apparent demeanour.

And so, Crowley found himself guided, or pulled, over to where the other had been sitting previously and more or less pushed down into the seat where he finally then let go of him.

Feeling angrier than before, Crowley glared up at the other.

“The actual hell are you playing at?” he said, and this time, the intended snap was at least there. That was something, even if not a lot. “As though it’s not bad enough as it is.”

He thought he saw hurt flicker across those achingly familiar features – he really was almost the spitting image of Crowley’s statue, which made the whole thing a lot harder to cope with, as though it wasn’t muddy and difficult – but ignored it. The man was the one who was in the wrong, after all, the intruder, liar and possibly, the burglar of said statue.

Crowley didn’t owe him any consideration.

_And it has nothing at all to do with the fact that you’re struggling to deal with your poor heart and feel entirely wrong-footed?_

No, of course it didn’t. It didn’t.

“I’m sorry, I don’t think I quite follow. What is bad enough? And as far as I know, I’m not ‘playing at anything’.”

“Piss off, of course you are.”

Was there a small wince at that? Why would there be?

_What, apart from the fact that you’re being incredibly rude for no goddamn reason, you mean?_

No reason? Of course, there was a reason. He’d broken in –

_But he hasn’t taken anything, hasn’t done a runner, hasn’t smashed anything of value, as far as you can see, has asked after your wellbeing and made you sit down when you were unwell. That’s hardly the action of someone reprehensible or with a guilty conscience._

Unless he was a good actor – why else would he choose to dress himself that much after Crowley’s statue?

_Now you’re just taking the ruddy piss, aren’t you?_

He was about to argue further – with his own mind, again, that clearly, as though he was truly arguing with someone else, why was he even trying to deny he’d gone bonkers? – when his thoughts were derailed.

They were derailed by the feeling of something touching him. Touching his hand, to be precise, which lay on his thigh just above his knee.

He hadn’t realised that he hadn’t actually been taking in any of his surroundings for at least a good few long moments until he felt the hand. Felt it far before he actually saw it, laying itself on top of his.

When he turned his head, it was to see the other on his knees, and just the thought of even a facsimile-Aziraphale on his knees like didn’t sit right, never mind the actual reality of it.

“Crowley? Would you tell me what’s wrong?”

“How – how do you know my name?” he asked, and it came out a little small and with just a bit of a croak.

Some part of his brain piped up to inform him that he’d probably read it somewhere, if nothing else then on the front door.

Except…his name wasn’t on the front door. Nor was his name a household one, even among the circles that cared about sculpture, which were rather small circles, too. People knew his sculptures, yes, and praised them, but that didn’t really extend to knowing his name.

Even if it did, there was the teeny tiny little issue that people didn’t know he didn’t like his first name much and preferred to be called by his last name. Exclusively so, if he could help it.

This…man couldn’t possibly know that. Not on his own nor was there anyone who could tell him. And yet…

Yet he had used it as easy and as natural as anything. As if, in fact, it came more natural to him to say that name over any other. Almost any other name in general – but that was projecting his thoughts, his wishes about Aziraphale onto this man, surely?

Could it…this wasn’t one of his teachers, was it? It would at least make sense, sort of, why he’d use his last name. Not that it was common, but Crowley had grown up in a, well, old-fashioned sort of town with an old-fashioned school and the teachers there had insisted on last names.

That might explain where he’d gotten the face of the blond from; a boyhood crush that had lain hidden in the depths of his mind for years and had only surfaced by accident.

But…he remembered his teachers. Not all of them, of course, but he thought he would’ve remembered someone who at the time would’ve been fairly young, to fit this face and body now.

Part of Crowley’s mind piped up to, unhelpfully, wonder about just how handsome he’d have been then. The rest of his mind shut it up by countering that he couldn’t possibly have been more handsome then than he was now.

And that was…well, it was certainly not aiding his situation, was it?

No, it bloody well wasn’t, and he didn’t _want _to think of all of these questions or have his heart do funny, painful things in his chest. Nor did he want to be this harsh, but he knew that he had to. Had to…

What didn’t help either was that the smile hadn’t just returned to the other’s face, it had turned soft and kind. Compassionate and just a little sad.

Not hurt, as such, but sad, which was even worse. Especially as it wasn’t really just a little sad.

The hand on top of his hadn’t moved and the poor Crowley had trouble not turning his own over so he could grasp it. Squeeze it in his own, really.

_Just this once, _another part of him whispered.

He told himself that that came from being touch-starved for so long – and there was a difference between the touches that were meant to lead to something else, however lovely and pleasurable those turned out to be, and the ones that stayed what they were, you might say, and that difference was significant. That and the fact the other looked so frustratingly, achingly much like Aziraphale.

_Doesn’t help that you’ve been working yourself bleeding hard, physically but especially psychologically, these last many weeks now, does it? That you weren’t exactly ‘revitalised’ by the sleep you had earlier._

No. No, it didn’t. That he could agree with. Easily.

The man who was not Aziraphale looked as though he was about to say one thing but then changed his mind and what came out was something else entirely.

“I’ve known your name for a very long time,” he settled on saying, with an air of that being all that he needed to say while simultaneously having a deeper air of having repressed something else.

“People don’t call me Crowley. They call me Anthony.”

That was a lie, sort of, but it was out before he could stop it and he had to admit, he wanted to hear what the reaction to that was going to be.

That and he could admit that the underlying air had rubbed his fur the wrong way.

There was a pause at that. The man’s face drew together in an odd expression that the ginger couldn’t decipher.

“I’m sure they do,” he said after a few moments, when his expression had cleared…well, mainly, anyway. “However, I think I shall continue to use ‘Crowley’, my dear.”

There it was again, that term of endearment that did not make any kind of sense. Not even for making him less suspicious – after all, if he wanted to nick something, well, he’d been through that line of thought, and if he wanted something else…’dear’ was hardly going to rock the boat, was it?

“What does it matter? You’ll be gone in an hour tops, anyway, so call me whatever the hell you want. Or nothing, that’ll probably be easier.”

This time, it was relatively easy to decipher the expression. After all, a frown wasn’t exactly the most subtle of gestures, even if it didn’t draw furrows into the face.

“Why ever are you so terribly convinced of that?”

“You’re a stranger and a burglar, sorry, _intruder_, who has, if you’re really not here to steal, no actual business being here except you’re being kind – “

There, he cut himself off, rather abruptly, and looked away, his jaw burning like it did when he was restraining tears and similar emotional outlets. He hadn’t meant to say any of that, even if it wasn’t exactly a smoking gun, and he wasn’t going to expose more of himself than he had already. It was bad enough already, right?

He squeezed his eyes shut, too, because the tears were incredibly persistent right then, wouldn’t take no for an answer at all.

“I might be here for a commission.” The words were spoken lightly, almost as though they were an in-joke, but with just the hint of edge that suggested something was being restrained there as well.

Crowley didn’t have the energy for it. His voice was weary when he spoke. “No, you’re not. You’re not the type to buy sculptures.”

“I might be.”

“No. You’re…just something out of my mind.”

There was silence for a few moments after that. Silence that seemed to lengthen and balloon at the same time, chewing gum bubble expanding all around them and distorting the time inside the bubble. Despite that, Crowley made no attempt to break it, turn his head or even open his eyes.

If he kept still, ignored the other, then he’d be back alone soon enough, and could find out what had really happened to his statue.

After all, when people didn’t get anything and they saw that they never would, they left.

_Shouldn’t have left him, _went the refrain in his mind. Should never have gone out like that in the first place, what had he been thinking? When did it ever, ultimately, turn out well – and when the hell had he become this bloody maudlin? He wasn’t even drunk or anything else that could explain or excuse that line of thought.

Finally, the blond – and Crowley should really get the man’s name or whatever he chose to call himself, so that he had something more to give to whatever cops he could persuade to listen than ‘middle-aged blond in Victorian clothing and a kind smile’, which wouldn’t go over well – moved.

First, the hand on top of Crowley’s disappeared and the ginger told himself that it didn’t hurt. It certainly didn’t hurt at all nor did it when he felt and heard, not saw, the other shift backwards, away from him.

After all, this was what he’d been expecting to happen, wasn’t it? Only a matter of time, maudlin or not. Who wanted to be called a figment of someone else’s imagination, eh? Some people might find it flattering in principle but in reality, it was no compliment.

You had to remember just what came out of people’s imagination, after all.

He breathed through his nose, slowly and carefully, and if he had to concentrate on doing it, so what?

It was fine. All fine. He was fine. Yup. It was fine.

Nothing to get worked up over, really. It was just a statue, one which he could replicate. It would never be the same, not even close, but he could pretend and then everything would be good. Gabriel would have his statue, probably. This kindly cruel man would realise that he was wasting his time, whatever the real reason for him being here, in costume and everything, which was going all the way with the mockery, really, and would leave Crowley alone.

He could go back to his humdrum safety, where nothing ached in melancholic vibrations inside of him.

Just give it a little longer and everything would be…quiet.

And it would be over.

He waited for the sound of footsteps over the workshop floor, ringing clearly to his trained ear no matter how soft someone trod.

It didn’t come.

Then he felt a hand touch him again. The same hand as before, the soft hint of warmth, though it was mainly coolness, was unmistakable, even if there hadn’t been only the two of them in the room and certainly in close proximity. It didn’t settle on his knee again or even his shoulder, though, which he would’ve expected if he’d thought about it at all.

Instead, it touched his cheek.

It was careful, one might even say hesitant, which gave the impression that the blond either didn’t know what he was doing, which was possible but somehow didn’t seem all too likely, or that he wasn’t certain of how it would be received, a possibility that seemed far more likely given the circumstances.

Why he would think to touch Crowley at all, much less somewhere so…not intimate but personal, at least, the ginger had no idea. His face didn’t exactly invite people to get in close and he had, over the years, cultivated a default look that backed that initial impression up, further enhancing it with the sunglasses and how he walked and generally behaved out in public.

The sunglasses also served another function, of course; that of hiding his eyes from the world around him, which invited less stares of a length just slightly too long to be called polite or even just curious.

One friend-turned-lover had once described them, with a strong dose of charitable feeling that he might later ascribe to it being early on in their friendship, as golden amber. Especially as the light hit them, she’d added, beaming at him.

She’d meant it kindly, he knew, but the fact of the matter was that they weren’t amber. Nor were they golden or chartreuse or whatever mad name the ones who made colour names specifically for paint purveyors and artist’s shops to confuse poor housewives and poor artists, respectively. Or was it the other way around?

No, what they were, and he’d glared at himself in the mirror once just to get it sorted once and for all, were…well, yellow.

Greenish yellow, perhaps, but still yellow. However, they weren’t snake yellow, either, or cat yellow, even, which might at least have been exotic and alluring. They were sort of stuck somewhere in between in a no man’s land of their own, which neither his parents nor any other relative shared, and more often than not, they made people stare.

Kids had made fun, of course, because that was part of what kids were _for, _but that only lasted until he’d gotten fed up and gave the latest berk a punch. He hadn’t outright beaten him up, though he wanted to, but that one punch had laid the other, much bigger kid, out on the tarmac…six feet from where he’d been standing.

After that – and he’d been told by some of the others that he’d hissed when he’d thrown the punch – the others had left him alone. Which was fine. Better than to be stuck having to listen to their drivel all day, anyway, that was for sure.

They’d ended up on better terms later, much to his surprise and initial suspicion, though admittedly that didn’t much. But even so, he never had what you might call a big or close-knit group of friends or acquaintances.

The sunglasses had become a convenient tool as well as a tangible representation of, well...

And now, he realised and cursed at himself under his breath for not having realised sooner, he didn’t have them on. Had in fact not been wearing them ever since he woke and had hurried down the stairs. The entire conversation with Azira – with the intruder, and he had been without them.

Dammit! As though he didn’t feel exposed and wrong-footed enough as it were.

But…the man hadn’t made mention of his eyes. Nor had he stared at them at any point since he’d looked up from whatever it was that he’d been reading, not for any longer than would make sense for a conversation.

Why not?

Why was he so intent on staying? There was nothing for him here. Why was he being kind? Why was he determined to touch Crowley like this, with care, and why was his hand cool where, by all rights, it should be warm?

His head buzzing with even more questions than before, not to mention the emotions boiling and roiling inside, Crowley found the hand on his cheek grounding, a needed anchor in all of this, and it took a lot of effort not to lean into it.

“Why?” he asked instead, his eyes darting back and forth across the other’s face, looking for something, anything to give him more of a clue.

“I might ask the same of you, dear,” was his answer, which was no help at all, and again that endearment.

“What?”

“You touched my cheek first.”

“I didn’t!” He would have remembered that, however tired and confused he was feeling. With how much he wanted to touch, now that he had even a look-alike of his Aziraphale right there in front of him, he’d know if he’d slipped up in his self-restraint.

“I believe you did.” Was there just a hint of colour on those soft cheeks, then? “Your hand felt more calloused than I might have expected, though I cannot say why that might be, but oh so soft compared to the tools, not to mention warm, and regardless, the gesture was quite lovely. Both gestures, really.”

Now there was decidedly some colour there, but Crowley didn’t really register it at the time. His mind was otherwise occupied.

Tools? What tools? What was he on about?

The only tools that Crowley had were the ones he used for his work and there was no way he’d employed them…against…flesh…

No. No, it couldn’t be.

It seriously couldn’t be. It was a downright physical impossibility. When he’d thought of it earlier, it had been a ludicrous joke and nothing more, brought about by his brain…misfiring or something, and even then, he’d recognised it for the lunacy it was.

This here was an impostor. An intruder who just, for a reason that he couldn’t fathom but had to be there, happened to resemble the statue he’d made to a…admittedly, to a scary and almost creepy degree, but even so, there was nothing more to it than that.

He was not his statue come to life. It. Was. Not. Possible. In. Any. Way.

And here he was, attempting to stave off his own madness once again and for what reason? Did people become happier by continuing to fight it when it was that glaringly obvious and, well, frankly, inescapable? Or did they just like the illusion that they had a hope in hell of beating this?

Probably the latter, given human nature.

He felt the strongest urge to close his eyes or at least look away again but decided to resist to the best of his abilities. In the back of his mind, he had a shrewd but not pleasant idea that he might not have much dignity left, all things considered, but he wanted to preserve what might be left of it.

Or maybe he just didn’t want to risk dislodging the hand on his cheek by moving.

Whichever the case, though more likely the latter, he kept looking up at the other. Even when he a moment later had to blink hard and something trickled down the patch of skin where laughter lines would be in probably not too long.

The tears, and wasn’t that just ludicrous and embarrassing, continued until one of them was caught by the hand still on his cheek, one finger moving to catch it.

He looked at the expression on the other’s face, trying to make sense of it. Aside from the simple fact that he seemed rather incapable of making sense of much of anything right now, the disparate parts didn’t much come together to form a singular expression or at least not one the Crowley could discern.

One emotion he was fairly sure he saw was sadness. Not sadness like he’d seen before on it, not quite. It was more the kind that was sad on behalf of others, a…sadness born of compassion.

It looked so much like something that would perfectly fit the image Crowley had built of his angel in his mind that another set of tears escaped his eyes and positively ran and skipped down the sides of his face, turned up towards the other as it was.

He stared, frozen in place, it seemed. Things were trying to connect in his mind and were wrenched apart by logic, by cynicism and by fear.

Throughout it, the blond just stood there, not pushing, not demanding. Not even trying to coax him into anything. Patient as a rock.

Rock…

But he…it was _impossible_…

Marble didn’t come to life. That sort of thing happened in stories but not in reality.

The hand moved then. Shifted so a thumb could brush across his bottom lip.

It was brief and it was gentle, but he thought he understood the implications, impossible though they were…

“Aziraphale?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was hard to write, for some reason, and I know it's probably not the renunion people were expecting or hoping for. I hope, perhaps, that you'll stick with me. It is going somewhere, I promise.


	8. Why would he get an angel?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley struggles to come to terms with the fact that this does indeed seem to be the Aziraphale he's dreamt about, the statue come to life. An actual angel, too, which begs the question; why would he get an angel?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this has been a month - to the day, actually, which is sorta...huh - but things have been stressful (they are for everyone, I know, but...but that's a long story). It might have to be the norm with a month for the next little while, I don't know.  
Thank you to everyone who's still here, you are the best and your feedback means the world to me.

His voice caught on the name as he spoke it out loud, finally daring, however tentative, doubtful and full of trepidation it might be, to think that this might just be…

Or, at least, if he was barking up completely the wrong tree, after all, then the man would hardly be more put off by being called an odd name that wasn’t his than he would by the rest of it.

_Not to mention the fact that he’s the one who’s not only kept his hand on your cheek but just brushed a thumb across your actual lip. That sort of tips the balance of odd and ‘being put off’ very definitely back towards him, though, doesn’t it?_

The use of the name didn’t seem to cause any indignation or even confusion in the other, which Crowley honestly would’ve expected.

Instead, what it caused was a smile that, although small, was warm and sincere.

“Hello, Crowley,” he said, his voice as warm as his smile. He’d removed his thumb, but his hand was still against the defined cheek.

“But you…you can’t…it’s impossible for…”

The fear that this was still somehow nothing more than a very elaborate trick, dreamt up to mock him – the fact about Gabriel he’d thought of before, the impracticalities and unlikeness of it clashing hard with the impossibility of the statue actually coming to life – made his words halting and hesitant and sent his eyes searching the other’s face once more.

“For me to be here?” the blond asked, gently, without even the hint of mockery to his voice.

“Yeah. You were…I mean, I made you.”

That sounded…different than he’d intended when he said it out loud, and not in a good way, at least, not necessarily so.

He wasn’t sure clarifying what he meant would make it sound less daft, either and there did come a point where you ought to just stop digging, preferably before you’d gotten deep enough for the coffin to fit.

But Aziraphale only continued to smile, gently and sincerely. As though he had all the time in the world.

“In a way, yes, you did.”

“But I can’t have. You’re…you’re flesh and bone,” _very definitely so and let’s not dwell on that point right now, not with him this close_, “and what I made was of stone. Entirely of marble but you look just like…”

He reached up in one swift motion and grabbed the wrist of the hand on his cheek, as though attempting to hold it there whatever happened.

“If this is a joke, please get it over with right now, okay?” he growled, suddenly back to being nervous and suspicious, the spike of it searing through him.

He couldn’t say exactly why that was, though.

“Joke? What kind of joke could I possibly be making and why would I be making it at all?”

It did sound as though it was a genuine question. Even so, Crowley couldn’t help but be doubtful and fearful, not an ideal combination when he needed to handle such things.

“That I…that you’re…that I was stupid enough to fall for my own fantasy, okay?” he said, and it was a snap again.

_There you go again, pushing any attempt at kindness away because it hurts too much to admit that –_

Look, you’re a part of me given voice that’s arguing with me. The bleeding least you could do is try to be marginally consistent!

“I’m sorry but you’re not making any sense, my dear. How is that any kind of joke?”

Oh, god, he was going to make him say it, wasn’t he?

“It is if you’re someone Gabriel sent to mock me and not actually…not actually a statue I’ve made that’s mysteriously come to life, even though that is a physical impossibility.”

The last part of that sentence was rushed out, to get it over and done with as quickly as possible. As he spoke, he found himself lowering his gaze, too, as well as his hand dropping away into his lap. He didn’t need to see either the confirmation that he was right, mocking even in its undoubtedly kind presentation, or the continued bafflement at what on earth he was talking about.

Or it could be that he was believed because it was the truth.

He wanted to believe that. Had believed it, too, for a short but wonderful moment, but doubts had started to creep in again. Not because of anything the other had done. If anything, Aziraphale’s actions could only be said to have cooperated, right?

No, this was solely down to Crowley himself…which should mean that he could push them out again.

It took some effort, but he turned his gaze back up to the other.

To find Aziraphale with an expression caught somewhere between joy, a hint of fear mixed with disbelief and outright anger. Not only was that not what he’d expected, it was in fact just a little bit unsettling and gave him a hint that the other wasn’t all softness and warmth.

In a strange sort of way, it was humanising.

It was also surprisingly helpful in making Crowley at least believe that what he had in front of him was real. Not in the sense of physicality, the hand on his was rather bloody obvious in that regard. It was more in the sense that if this was a joke at his expense, then the other was…well, he’d have to look at what the man had starred in. A talent like that shouldn’t go unutilised.

“Sent by…by Gabriel?” the blond finally said, and it sounded as though even getting the words out wasn’t just difficult but almost painful.

“Ehm…yeah?”

Now Crowley felt wrong-footed again but for entirely different reasons than before. This was decidedly odder but somehow easier to cope with. Or perhaps it was just gratifying to hear someone else speak in that sort of tone about Gabriel. That might very well be. He couldn’t find it in himself to complain.

Aziraphale – and though Crowley still didn’t entirely dare believe it, he found that he wanted to call the man Aziraphale, at least until proven otherwise – looked downright affronted at the suggestion now, though both the fear and the joy were still present in his expression, too.

“The very idea!” he exclaimed. “Sent by – by – well, that certainly proves that you cannot be aware of…though how you cannot be, given all that you’ve retained,” and here his eyes flickered across Crowley’s face and body, in an odd implication, “is quite the mystery, but of course that…”

His voice got gradually lower and lower as he spoke until it was a mumble that likely wasn’t meant for Crowley to hear and then it didn’t matter because he couldn’t hear it, regardless of whether he wanted to or not.

What he did hear did not make any sort of sense, however. But whether he ought to draw attention to that or just ignore it, he wasn’t sure at all.

The blue-green eyes had also turned away from him in the obvious speculation and that was less than acceptable. Never mind the fact that Crowley had only just done more or less the same thing. That was different.

After a few moments of this, the blond seemed to surface again; his gaze snapped back up to fix firmly on Crowley’s eyes, seemingly still not bothered in the slightest by their colour.

His hand hadn’t left its spot, either. At this rate, Crowley might make the mistake of getting used to it or something.

“No, I was not sent by Gabriel. Not to mock you, my dear, nor anything else. That I can wholeheartedly promise you.”

Though he was glad to know that, at least, and if nothing else he believed the expression on Aziraphale’s face and the decisive firmness in his voice, Crowley couldn’t help but notice that the blond was also sort of…evading the question. Or at least, evading giving a definitive answer on whether he was a statue or not.

Which, all things considered, probably wasn’t that strange. Who would want to admit to something like that, after all, even if it looked as though both parties believed it?

“So…where did you put the statue?”

“I told you, I am no burglar.”

Crowley made a quick decision, took a deep breath and asked, “Then what are you?”

What surprised him most was that what he wished for was to hear that he was indeed his statue, his dreams come to life.

“I am your friend.”

The words were spoken decisively enough, Crowley would have to grant him that. At the same time, however, there was just enough hesitation before they came that it was, to him, very clear that something else had come before that. Something important.

That said, the words that were spoken seemed to have been imbued with a weight that the sculptor didn’t quite grasp.

Apart from the fact, of course, that they didn’t make sense. But he couldn’t say that, could he? Even if he didn’t understand, the fact that the statement held gravitas for at least one of them – that Aziraphale was more or less a version of Crowley’s fantasy lover had no bearing on anything in the circumstance – ought to remind him to tread more carefully and considerately.

“I…you can’t be friends with someone you don’t know.”

He wasn’t trying to be snarky or snappy. Not in the slightest. In fact, he _tried_ to pitch it not merely neutrally but kindly. Understandingly while getting across that he didn’t understand this himself. He wasn’t at all sure that he managed it, but he did his best to.

It seemed that he didn’t; despite his best efforts, Aziraphale’s face fell at his words. Not hard and he appeared to recover quickly but Crowley did clock it and it made his heart twist.

Of course, he’d bugger that up. It was almost inevitable, wasn’t it? Here Aziraphale was, offering something of what Crowley would so dearly love to have and he couldn’t keep his mouth shut.

“No. No, of course you can’t,” Aziraphale said and his smile was brief and looked as though each muscle had to be individually propped up to give the right impression. “Silly of me to suggest otherwise, really.”

He began to pull away at that, his hand slipping from the ginger’s cheek slowly.

No. That wasn’t right, that wasn’t right _at all._

His hand shot up, fuelled by panic, to grasp at the wrist again and halt the process.

It worked, but for how long would it?

“I’d like to, though,” he said, the words tumbling out. He knew his eyes were wide and showing at least some of the panic he felt but he couldn’t have stopped it if he tried. “If you’re…if you’re not mocking me or making fun of me or something like that, I…I want to be your friend. Anything you’d like, really.”

Did that sound desperate? Probably but though the words were out before he could stop them, he found that he meant them. So long as it wasn’t some sort of sick joke or otherwise playing with him, he wanted to keep the other around, in whatever capacity he was comfortable with.

The ache that he’d felt in his heart ever since that fateful dream had…not exactly gone away but nevertheless, it had been soothed, or so it had felt – before he’d gone and buggered it all up, of course. Now it was back to aching.

“Now who’s mocking who?” the blond asked, and his voice was both gentle and quietly hurt. That somehow made it hurt even worse.

“I’m not mocking you! Why would I mock you? I – “

“Don’t know me, no.”

“That wasn’t what I was going to say!” Crowley countered, somewhat desperately. “I was going to say I have no reason to mock you – and no interest in it, either. I just admitted I thought you were the statue I’m missing that’s come to life, what the hell claim do I have to be mocking anybody?”

He tightened the grip on the wrist. Not to the point that it would hurt, by his estimation at least, but enough so that he hoped he’d gotten across that he didn’t want it to leave.

“Please, I – I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have – should have – “

He didn’t even know what he was saying anymore and certainly not what he meant. All he knew was that he had to say something, anything to prevent the other from leaving. Well, of course he’d leave, because everyone did sooner or later, but that didn’t mean he had to leave now. Not like this.

He kept looking at Aziraphale but even so, he wasn’t prepared for what happened next. Not at all.

The hand on his cheek tightened, or pressed closer, or whatever it might be called. He only just got time to register it before his field of vision was filled with the face of the other and then…

Then he was being kissed.

There was no other word for it. Not that there was many, if any, other words that could be used for two sets of lips meeting, at least none that wasn’t merely poorly substituted synonyms. Nothing with a different reason behind it.

The point was that it couldn’t be chalked up to a mistake or something accidental. The sort of thing you always saw in movies. It might be a peck only, but it was a kiss.

Except…it wasn’t a peck. It wasn’t a snog or a smooch, either, but it was too long and too…soft, for lack of a better word, to be called a peck.

However, it was short enough that before he could get his brain back up and running – the thought about what it was came rushing in afterwards, filling up the gaps around it as such thoughts often do – the other had started to pull back and did in fact make it upright before Crowley could stop him.

Of course, he could reach out and pull him back, with force if necessary. Just because he was tall and skinny didn’t mean he was frail. He did lug around stone and other heavy items on a regular basis, even if he wasn’t stupid enough to try and haul the full-size sculptures. He liked having a working spine, thank-you-ever-so-much, not to mention having no interest in damaging his work.

But though he could do that, he wasn’t going to. That would be forcing himself on the other and that wasn’t going to happen.

So, however much he wanted another chance, a proper chance, to kiss and be kissed by this man who looked so uncannily like his angel, he would wait for him.

Some part of him was very grateful to see that there wasn’t any hint of regret on Aziraphale’s face, at least.

“There. I cannot tell you how disappointed I was that I was unable to reciprocate when first you kissed me but now I can at least – “

“Wait, what?” Crowley interrupted, eyes widening to the point that it almost hurt.

Aziraphale frowned but it was a frown of confusion and uncertainty rather than annoyance or irritation.

“The kiss you gave me before you ran out. I thought that you had at least accepted the possibility that such things as – “he began, his voice quiet and perhaps a tiny bit wavering. Certainly, it was a little hesitant.

“Not that,” Crowley interrupted again, in an attempt both to explain and to stop that wavering, hesitant tone. It hurt. “I do accept that, even if it means I’m bound for fucking Bedlam. That wasn’t what I meant at all!”

“Then what did you mean?”

“That you could, I mean – I didn’t think you could feel it, you were made of marble at the time!”

And if ever there was a sentence that he never thought he’d say in his life, that was at the very least a serious contender.

But at the same time, there was another chain in the link of grounding. Of reality, for lack of a better word. No impostor could know that he…well, he might suspect that he’d kissed the statue, based on Crowley’s odd behaviour so far, he honestly had no idea at this point. But he couldn’t correctly guess that he’d run out – he instinctively bridled at the idea, but he had to admit that it was probably true – straight after doing that.

“Oh.” Of all things, that caused a quick quirk of lips from Aziraphale. “Well, yes, in that light, I suppose that could be a little more difficult to believe.”

He paused, as though something else had just occurred to him at that. Then he looked more closely at the ginger, studying him for a moment that felt very long and very scrutinising. Crowley held steady under the gaze, however.

“You’re not…” he finally said, an odd tone to his voice, “but you are. You believe me but you think you’re going mad – and I can assure you that Bedlam was quite a lot more heart-wrenching than what it has gone into the common language as. Sensationalist, to say the least.”

“What?”

Was it him or did that seem to be at least a good portion of what his contribution had been reduced to? To be fair, though, this whole day couldn’t be said to make much, if any, sense, so perhaps he was justified.

“Sorry. Bit side-tracked, I suppose. A lot to think about, really, but there ought to be…and you deserve to know.”

“Know what?” Not that the rest of the sentence made much sense but one thing at a time. It was about what he felt he could deal with there and then.

Aziraphale, who’d been looking down in thought, lifted his eyes back to Crowley and smiled. A proper smile, too. “Know that you are not going barmy, my dear. Not even slightly.”

The lips wobbled as the smile turned odd and wistful for a moment. “You might wish, in hindsight, that you were, of course.”

Still not understanding much of anything, Crowley took a breath and a decision.

He turned his head, keeping the hand where it was so he could kiss the palm of it, sweet and lingering. He wasn’t sure but he thought he heard a small intake of breath at that and couldn’t help a small but intense sense of joy at that.

“I won’t,” he then said, turning his head just enough to be sure he was heard. “If I’m not, if this is all real, somehow, fuck knows how, then I’m glad. I’m _glad_ to finally meet you, angel.”

The word slipped out entirely without his supervision. Not that he was a stranger to that, of course, but even so, he wasn’t prepared for it to happen. He certainly wasn’t prepared for it to be that particular word to be the one to slip out.

Because yes, he’d mentally called him one at least a few times. He’d looked up angel names to try and find where he’d got the name ‘Aziraphale’ from.

Hell, he’d even actually taken the time to give his statue angel wings, despite the fact that they made no sense for him to have – and there was a tick in the box of ‘this isn’t really the Aziraphale that he hoped it was, no matter what the blond said, because if the physical impossibility of a statue coming to life, and flesh, was true, then where were the wings he sculpted?’ that he did not want to think about.

All of these things were true. They just didn’t equal that he would have ever dared to say it out loud, and especially not when it was this early. He’d tipped his hand and rocked the boat, yes, and whatever else idioms you cared to mention that would fit, but even so…

To use what to everyone else would be considered a term of endearment, regardless of the fact that he’d meant it more literally, that was a risk he hadn’t intended to take.

Even the fact that he could point out that he’d meant it in terms of the wings – which weren’t there – he didn’t feel would be particularly helpful. It had still _sounded _like a term of endearment.

But…

To his surprise, there seemed to little reaction to the slip-up or rather, there wasn’t any negative reaction to it. In fact, ludicrous – and wasn’t that they byword for this whole thing? – though it sounded, it was almost as though Aziraphale had been expecting it, somehow.

He was smiling and though the smile was just a little odd and indecipherable, at least to Crowley, it was there.

“That would prove it, wouldn’t it?” he asked, sounding contemplative but also…hopeful?

“Prove what?”

“That you have not gone nutty as a fruitcake, as it were.”

With that, he took a few steps backwards, despite Crowley’s attempts to prevent him.

There, out in the large, clear space of the workshop, he paused, took a deep, slightly shuddering inward breath then closed his eyes.

As he then exhaled, drawn out but strong, Crowley watched in wonder and no small amount of incredulity, even given everything, something extend itself from the other’s back. Something white and feathery.

Something beautiful.

He’d have probably gotten a better view if Aziraphale had turned his back. In terms of seeing what was going on in better detail, anyway.

However, the angle that he was seeing it from was quite perfect for him. It allowed him to see not only most of the feathery wings unfolding, to a point where he was glad the ceiling of this part of the workshop was relatively high, but to see the expression on the, well, the actual angel, it seemed, as well…

That was something he wouldn’t trade for anything.

He watched the, quite frankly, spectacle of the wings that logically could never be large enough to support the mass of a human, unfold, which confirmed more than just the fact that he hadn’t gone off the deep end, at least in regards to believing a statue could come to life and tuck their wings away into nonexistence until they were needed.

Still didn’t explain just how that had all come from a statue but when you can grow wings on command, perhaps coming to life from a statue is merely a small step up on the ladder.

As he watched it, eyes wide, he thought he felt something shift, in both his chest and in his head.

What happened in his head was the more immediate concern, though mainly because images flashed past his eyes. Images which he was convinced he recognised even though he could not say wherefrom or why, and which sparked more images.

None of them made a lot of sense, many of them being vague and in any case flashing past him too quickly to catch. The thing that he did notice, however, was that a person with curly blond hair featured in quite a lot of them, one who shared the vagueness about their face and body with the person from his dreams.

On its own, that might seem like confirmation that he had in fact sculpted his statue from some half-recalled memory and that Aziraphale, while not an imposter, was a real person he’d known but couldn’t remember, who’d just happened to come back for a visit.

The wings were rather definite proof that he hadn’t, though, and…

Fuck it all, his head _hurt, _too many directions, too many concerns, too many thoughts going back and forth and across all at once like some railway junction from a Morris Escher painting with a train theme.

But he refused to close his eyes or look away, no matter how much it hurt or what images might otherwise flash through his mind. This was important for him to see and at least try to understand. It wasn’t as though the images made sense, either, no more than his dreams.

Once the wings settled, after stretching out to their fullest, in what seemed to be some need with consequent relief, Aziraphale opened his eyes again, slowly, as if to do so was unexpectedly difficult, maybe even painful. There was more light in the room than expected, the sun breaking through the cloud cover for a moment, but that wasn’t really the reason, or so Crowley would’ve guessed.

Blue eyes seemed unable to focus for…no, that wasn’t right.

For a moment, just a fraction of a second, they were entirely blue, as though someone had removed the pupil as well as any nuance, rendering it a solid mass of clearest blue.

That _had _to be a trick of the light, though. The same way that his eyes sometimes appeared entirely golden and transparent when sun hit them in just the right way but were in fact still entirely yellow.

Even so, he thought for a moment he felt something rush through him, like a wind whooshing down from head to toe and out of him, and everything got exceeding bright and light.

The moment passed and Aziraphale blinked then smiled, at nothing in particular, it seemed.

“Goodness, that was…quite a bit more than I would’ve expected it to be. I really ought to have them out more often, but, well, it doesn’t really fit…”

He trailed off as he looked back down at the redhaired man whose eyes were still wide, though not with disbelief or the surety that he’d gone stark ravers enough to have such vivid hallucinations. What they were full of, however, wasn’t quite as clear. Or clear at all, really.

“Crowley?” he asked, then, when he got no answer, he repeated the name, sounding worried.

Still no answer.

“Crowley, please…was it too much?” he asked as he moved closer and reached out.

Before he made contact, however, he hesitated then withdrew his hands again. This time, there was no attempt to stop him. Which, given the insistence to touch and keep his touch earlier, was a worrying sign. As was the fact that Crowley was no longer looking at him.

“Oh, dear, please, I, I know I should’ve given more thought to how seeing that might affect you. I just…I thought that it was important for you to know that, but of course I should’ve seen that…oh, please say _something.”_

_“Why does it…**hurt**?”_

The words were whispered, barely audible but even so, they carried a fierceness, born of pain and confusion, with them that made the blond recoil. Thankfully only a little and even then, it was evidently born out of sympathy and regret, not fear or disgust.

“What hurts, dear boy?” he asked, his voice incongruously calm, as though he was asking a child where it hurt after it had stumbled over its own legs and had hurt itself through that.

Crowley didn’t answer, just bit his lip and closed his eyes, tightly as though that would somehow make it hurt less, whatever it was.

Therefore, he was quite severely unprepared for what happened next; his hands were grabbed, not hard but with a firmness that quite clearly said that declining or even fighting against it wasn’t an option, and he was pulled, not only upright but straight into the slightly shorter, much softer man, angel, whichever, who then wrapped his arms around him. Tightly so.

The sculptor tried to pull, or rather push, away again but it was quite fruitless. Even though the embrace was somewhat awkward, to say the least, though not stiff – as if the one embracing was aware of what it entailed in principle but had never put it into practice rather than because it somehow appalled the idea of embracing was abominable but had to be done – the plump hands and arms were quite immovable.

Yellow eyes opened but couldn’t see much of anything. Then he realised that that was because all he saw was wings, pulled up and around the two of them in a sort of…cocoon, for lack of a better word.

He stared at them, only barely comprehending them, until something inside the pinball game, one where all the balls have been released at once, that was his mind right then, latched onto something.

Protection.

That was what they were doing. Protecting him.

Shielding him.

Another image flashed through his mind at that and it would’ve hurt, too, except this one had a clarity that none of the others…no, that wasn’t quite right.

It wasn’t much clearer than the others. In fact, in some ways, it was even vaguer. One long stretch of whiteness, of something that felt like a wing, over his head, a warm body in white next to him.

But the _feeling _that accompanied it popped bright and clear into his mind and the wave of it poured out over the turmoil of thoughts and images and all the other half-formed things in there, not destroying or killing them, but soothing them and, when necessary, immobilising them until they could be more safely dealt with.

It was the feeling of protection, of being cared for and protected. Not out of obligation, not at all, just because…he didn’t even know, but the protection was immediately and genuine.

To feel worthy of that kind of protection was…to be perfectly honest, it felt unfathomable but that someone had_ thought_ that he was, regardless of the reality, was beyond…well, beyond words, really, in the best possible way.

His hands came up and he grabbed onto the coat of the blond, with some difficulty and a lot of navigating just above where the wings sprouted from, presumably, fingers digging hard enough that fabric ought to tear.

“Aziraphale…” he said, his voice strangled.

“I’m here, my dear, I’m here.”

“I…”

A hand cradled the back of his neck as he was drawn in even closer. He could hear another heart beating, feel the wings surrounding him.

And with that, something broke inside of him, something deep, old, dormant and painful.

He cried.

In fact, to use the word ‘cry’ was to severely fail to communicate the occurrence.

Tears didn’t just fall down his cheeks or even stream. Well, they did stream, but that was only the start. He wasn’t making any big noises but for all their quietness, the sheer emotion that came through them were almost greater than if the noises had indeed been big enough to contain them.

The hands grabbing onto the back of the blond scrabbled and dug, twisting the fabric as they sought to burrow deeper, push themselves, and the body they belonged to, closer to the other. It resembled a drowning or falling man clinging to whichever thing he’d managed to grab onto, despite his grip being tenuous and slippery, in the knowledge that if he let go, he would plunge to his death.

On top of all of that, his body trembled like a leaf in a high wind.

If asked, he wouldn’t know how long he stood like that, why Aziraphale allowed him to stand there and get his coat and shirt all covered in tears and snot – because no matter how quietly you cry, if it’s a long, heart-wrenching, soul-creaking cry, snot will accumulate and it will run along the river you’re crying, because it doesn’t care about what’s pretty or acceptable – or even why he’d begun to cry.

All he knew was that everything hurt, beyond words that he could find, but that slowly, ever so slowly, as his tears eventually ran out and his body still shook with the tremors of crying, the hurt…didn’t go away but it…perhaps it dulled.

At least, that was as close to an explanation as he could get.

And the one he was clinging to hadn’t gone away. He hadn’t disappeared, revealed to be a figment, after all, or had pushed Crowley away in disgust, either, which was just as likely, in his experience.

No, he’d not only kept from pushing him away, he’d actively held onto the taller man, had in fact kept him upright when his trembling, as well as his legs threatening to buckle, had put in danger of crumbling to the floor. His touch had remained gentle, if strong.

As though that hadn’t been enough, and far more than Crowley would’ve expected, if he’d had the presence of mind to think about it then, he was also speaking soft, soothing words. Unlike most in such situations, it wasn’t gibberish, either, but fully formed, if short, sentences of comfort and reassurance.

When eventually the ginger dared to risk pulling away, afraid to leave the comfort he’d gotten from the other but knowing, once conscious awareness returned over the emotional tidal wave he’d been caught in, that he wouldn’t be allowed to stay, he kept his gaze turned down and away.

Ideally, he would’ve liked to close them, but he was genuinely afraid that if he did, he would reopen them to find that there was nobody there, or, if he was lucky, he’d find a single feather.

His hands he immediately stuck into non-existent pockets, without going to wipe anything away, afraid that if he didn’t do that, if he didn’t keep them firmly in one place and forced them to stay put, they would reach out and try to wrap themselves around the angel again.

Angel…

There really wasn’t any doubt now, was there? Not when he’d had the tangible evidence of the wings not just in front of him but actively curled around him, touching him in the process.

But if that was the case, then another question was manifesting in his mind…

Why would he get an angel?

Leaving aside the bit about him coming to life from a bleeding statue – if he was the genuine article, wasn’t a statue in the shape of an actual humanoid, with carved wings to boot, just about the easiest thing in the world to manifest from? – it didn’t make any sense at all for Crowley to be the one to have an angel visit him.

_Especially not one who so perfectly fits what you want to have in a partner, eh?_

Oh, _good_. He’d wondered what had happened to his inner voice arguing with him. Did it disappearing and then returning mean that he’d gotten some sanity back? Or at least, gotten back to his previous level, which felt like an accomplishment on its own – and wasn’t that horrible in its own right?

Well, that horrible could take a number and a seat and wait its turn. It was getting to be quite the crowded time, mentally.

But the point still remained. There was no reason for him to get a visit from an angel, or at least, no way he was worthy of seeing one. Well, really, of having his statue turn into one, if you wanted to get technical…and he really was struggling to get over that hurdle mentally, wasn’t he? Was that a good sign? He wished he could say he knew.

What he did know was that he’d been right before, that it should be the easiest of things to do for such an entity and therefore, he shouldn’t waste more time thinking about it. Though it could be argued that going in circles was better than going nowhere at all, everything having become painful static, a gridlock in a myriad of black-and-white.

In whatever way it had come about, the fact that he’d been visited by a real, physical angel didn’t…because he wasn’t particularly religious. Or particularly depressed or anything else. There was nothing special about him, nothing that marked him out.

Yeah, he was a good sculptor, an incredible sculptor, in fact, he could grant himself that, and he had sort of weird eyes, but that was about it.

Not exactly anything to get a messenger of God excited or mark him out for a visit. Especially not one like this, where he’d not just been patient and kind, but had gone out of his way to try and soothe one distraught person, who was also one pathetic person. More than once, too, as though once wasn’t embarrassing enough.

They didn’t do that. Not in general and certainly not with someone like him.

So, why had he come? What possible reason could there be for him to visit Crowley? Crowley couldn’t see it, and he did try to –

Unless…

Was it – was it because he’d actually meant to come to Gabriel instead of Crowley? That was who had commissioned the statue, after all. The fact that he’d said no to making the statue for him, initially, and that he hadn’t intended it to be for the berk when he did make it was perhaps immaterial in the circumstances. What had mattered – to Heaven? God? – was that he’d made it at all.

Why not wait to manifest the living, breathing version of Aziraphale until the statue had been given over to the intended recipient, then? That’d reduce the risk that, well, that this would happen.

Perhaps somebody had sussed that Crowley had no intention of giving the statue to Gabriel. That he was in fact actively attempting to prevent the berk from getting close to the statue, to take it. In which case, letting Aziraphale become humanoid now made a lot more sense because he could then walk out on his own.

But then…why not have him walk out immediately? If Crowley wasn’t his intended target, as it were, why not leave the workshop the moment he came to life? Or even at any other point until now. He’d know that Crowley wasn’t the intended recipient, presumably, so why had he stayed behind?

He could feel some of the calm seeping back out of him again as these new thoughts clamoured in his head.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale asked.

Despite all the things that he’d already been put through by the sculptor, he didn’t sound angry, frustrated or even impatient. It was purely the same patience and kindness as he’d exhibited since Crowley had first seen him, sitting at his own desk, reading.

“Why…” Crowley said, keeping his eyes firmly averted. He wetted dry lips, though he didn’t have much moisture left, and tried again. “Why me?”

“Why you what, dear?”

_Please stop calling me that, even if it’s just on the same level as nan-speak. It makes my heart float a little higher each time and if it gets much higher, it’s going to shatter completely once it all…and I can’t help it, no matter how pathetic it is._

He felt like crying again, even though he knew it would be more akin to dry-heaving at that point. But he had to…to get himself under control. He had to, to something. Yes, something…something that…

His eyes closed all on their own. In fact, they squeezed shut...which didn’t help the swaying he’d already begun to experience.

Not that he got to experience it for long; arms came around him and pulled him back into the slighter shorter, softer body, cradling him against it. He didn’t try to pull away or otherwise protest it this time.

“Why did you come to me?” he finally managed to get out, not looking up at the other at any point. It took several tries and even when he did manage to say it, he wasn’t entirely sure it made much sense, after all.

Aziraphale didn’t answer and Crowley’s heart clenched.

“Never mind,” he said, trying to sound decisive yet offhand, verbally shrugging. Unaffected, even.

Which was not only a fruitless endeavour but a rather silly and pointless one in the circumstances, given what he’d just done, but that wasn’t the point. The point was that he might scrape himself somewhat together again that way, which he was going to need.

Bloody hell, when had his mind, his life become such a mess?

_How about the moment that Gabriel stepped into the workshop and didn’t take no for an answer?_

Well…yes. That’d do it, wouldn’t it? The worst about that was that he hadn’t been passive in it. He’d actively contributed to all of this, even if he hadn’t known it at the time.

_Road to Hell and all…_

For some reason he couldn’t fathom, the expression actually sent another image flashing through his mind and unlike the others, this one was crystal clear and vivid. Almost as though he had personal experience taking the route down to hell, which didn’t make any sense.

_What, unlike everything else up until now that has just made _so_ much sense?_

No, but even with that caveat, this was…odd.

Those thoughts flashing through his mind almost as fast as the images, it was only a moment after saying ‘never mind’ that he tried to step away again. To disentangle himself, physically if nothing else, from what hurt.

From what wasn’t meant for him.

The moment he tried to pull away, however, the arms tightened their grip. Not harshly, not in any way that actually hurt. Yet the message that to try and fight this would be utterly futile was once again incredibly clear.

Nevertheless, and knowing that with the way he’d been both pulling away from as well as clinging and clutching onto the same person in a very short span of time, he must come across as downright confusing, he made another attempt at it.

It yielded the exact same result.

“Please…” he said. He didn’t know what he was pleading for.

Again, there was no answer, just the cotton-clad iron grip.

Had he done something wrong? Was that it? But what could he possibly do that would attract the wrath of God, the retribution of an angel? That he wasn’t worthy of positive attention didn’t equal that he was worthy of negative attention, did it? And why would he be lured in, then, too, with kindness and understanding, with _protection_, only to have it all turn out to be a lie?

Yellow eyes took in nothing as they flitted about their sockets, caught there, unable to escape.

“I only ever asked questions…”

The words came out small and slightly broken. He also had no idea where they’d come from or what had prompted them.

He thought, though he couldn’t be sure, that he heard Aziraphale mutter something. It might’ve been a prayer but if it was, it was done, not wrong, but certainly oddly.

It was more like someone asking the recipient to please pick up the phone and answer them, though it was done exceedingly kindly and politely, than someone entreating a higher power to listen to their humble request.

Which probably shouldn’t be too surprising, given who, or what, was praying, but it was still odd.

He couldn’t work out why Aziraphale might be praying right now, either. Then again, his head was slightly overtaxed right then as it was.

Something pressed against his temple, as softly as the feathers that still shielded him, cocooned him. It took him a long time to register, relatively speaking, that it was in fact lips.

A broken noise sliced through his throat.

Too much, it was all too much, and it hurt. It hurt everywhere.

“I know you did, dear,” the angel murmured against his skin. He sounded, of all things, which only added to the confusion, apologetic. His lips and the rest of his face pulled away. “And so does She.”

Crowley looked up at that, wondering at the difficulty in doing so, to find a soft face that was…

To call it ‘stormy’ was accurate, but it failed to include ‘thunderous’ and ‘steely’, which was just as puzzling as the apologetic tone had been, if not more so.

“Aziraphale?” he queried, and his voice was a tired, slurred thing, despite the fact that he’d slept not too long ago at all.

“It’s alright, Crowley,” the blond murmured gently, soothingly. If the ginger didn’t know better, he might even have ventured to call it ‘lovingly’. Fortunately, for his poor, battered heart, he did know better, a whole lot better.

“It’s not…” he muttered.

A pause, then a hand brushed a bit of hair out that had fallen into Crowley’s eyes.

“No, it’s not. But it will be, I promise you.”

The quiet fierceness of that statement was the last thing that Crowley registered and remembered before his eyes slid shut.

Well, not quite the last thing.

He thought he felt another kiss, this time on his lips, and he thought he heard the angel’s voice whisper, as softly as if he were addressing a sleeping baby, while simultaneously, there was the faintest click of fingers being snapped.

“You will have a lovely dream about whatever you like best.”

And with that, he was not just sinking beneath the waves of sleep, he was learning to navigate through the Mariana trench of slumber. Possibly there had been a little bit of assistance on that score, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There. We got wings, at last ;) Proving his celestial nature, for those that might think this would be wholly human.  
And I know it was a wait and I'll make you wait again, but hopefully, a 7,5k chapter choc full of Crowley being a mess and trying to cope is a fair trade? I hope so, at least, it was the best I could do.


	9. A Visitor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Crowley wakes, he thinks he must have been dreaming. After all, a statue coming to life is quite ludicrous. Then he finds out he still has a visitor and not only that, he's talking to someone. Someone Crowley really don't want to see and certainly wants nowhere near Aziraphale.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cannot thank you enough for the support, love, patience and interest you have all bestowed upon me, especially through the comments. Seriously!

When he woke, back in his bed, and had gotten through that initial check-up in his mind to make sure it was still at least marginally the same person who’d gone to sleep, something which he wasn’t too certain of afterwards, he was positive that he’d dreamt the entire thing.

Not making the statue, of course. He knew he’d made that. If nothing else, he had specific callouses and a cut or two to prove it.

But the rest of it. The _rest _of it! He must’ve been drugged or something by that one-night stand and hallucinated – his actual dreams had been pretty wonderful, though he couldn’t remember details.

After all, thinking that a statue could just up and disappear? Then to top it by believing it had magically come alive and not only that, but turned into an actual, living, breathing angel. Of course, the wings had been there in the statue but even so, to think that he had genuinely been visited by an _angel, _that was –

He heard a voice coming from downstairs.

A voice he recognised; one he’d recognise anywhere, in fact. One which made his heart sink into his stomach and get lodged in his throat at the same time.

Gabriel.

He wasn’t about to let that cockwaffle anywhere near his statue, no matter what! He’d never agreed to make the statue for Gabriel, and he wasn’t going to allow him to sneak off with it. Or, knowing him, walk out of the workshop bold as bloody brass because he couldn’t fathom that he was in the wrong on this.

Chalking the fact that the berk was talking up to him ordering some lower-ranking person – which in terms of brain could be nobody but from the perspective of self-evaluation could be anyone – about so that he could get the statue out, Crowley leapt out of bed and raced over the stairs.

He didn’t notice that he was not only in the clothes he had on when he’d gotten home from his successful ‘pull’, but that he was in fact on physical repeat, even if there were slight differences.

When he made it to the top of the stairs, however, he heard something that didn’t just jog his memory, but positively shoved at it.

Aziraphale!

But…that wasn’t…that didn’t…

The rest of the memories flooded back to him, though part of him really wished they wouldn’t, and drowned his protests.

It was all true. His heart both throbbed in pain and swelled with joy at the realisation.

But then, then why hadn’t Aziraphale already left with Gabriel? That was who he’d been sent for, after all, it only made sense that he’d go with him.

He tried to listen closer, without giving away that he was up there, forgetting that he hadn’t exactly been silent up until that point.

It seemed, however, that the two talking were preoccupied enough with their conversation that they hadn’t noticed the racket he’d made.

What were they saying, though?

“I cannot believe that you would even think of doing it like this.”

“I don’t see why not. It clearly has worked.”

Doing what like this? But it seemed as though they were at least far too absorbed in what they were talking about to hear him, which was a help.

“It was entirely unnecessary and what is more, it was cruel, Gabriel. To put him through something – what good has it done?”

“So far it has given you back your corporation, Aziraphale, something which I thought you would’ve been somewhat more appreciative of, especially given all the trouble it’s taken to get here.”

“You could’ve just assigned me a new corporation entirely rather than having it go through this charade. As though it won’t have been – “

“Listen, sunshine, the fact that you’ve had any association with the former incarnation of that demon – “

Oi! Just because he’d refused making the statue, making Aziraphale – could he even still say that? It felt wrong to think now, much less say – for the idiot, and might’ve done so in no uncertain terms at all, there was no call for that kind of name calling. For himself _or _for Aziraphale.

The latter made him bridle more than the one for himself, because there was no way the blond deserved to be talked to like that, especially not with the undertone to the name.

_Demon._

That said, the moniker for himself sent a jolt of…_something _running through him. Something which wasn’t entirely pleasant and wasn’t exclusively unpleasant, either. What it most certainly was, however, was familiar and in a way that he wasn’t all that comfortable with.

‘We’re an angel and a demon, hereditary enemies’

The words swept through his mind as gently and as faintly as a conversation heard on the wind. Even so, they rang the same something inside of him as the other things had.

All in all, it joined the aching in his heart and the confusion in his head and made for a cocktail that would threaten to make anyone dizzy.

That said, he continued listening, hackles raised. Which at least was better than feeling scared or even just hurt and as he listened, they only rose further, angrier at the way Gabriel dared to speak to Aziraphale even than he’d been at being talked to like that himself.

“– so, you should count yourself exceedingly lucky that you were chosen to be re-corporated at all after you got yourself into trouble like that. If it were up to me, you’d have been left in that limbo you were found in.”

Wait, hang on. He’d missed something there. What had been said while his mind had gone off on a tangent like that? It sounded important and he’d missed it.

Creeping just a little bit closer, he tried to catch up.

“That is as may be,” Aziraphale replied.

Crowley blinked to hear that kind, warm voice sound not just cool as it had before in his conversation with Gabriel – though despite that, there was a familiarity there that Crowley didn’t much like, not out of jealousy, as he might’ve expected, but horror that Aziraphale would’ve had to have regular contact with him – but outright cold.

He might go so far as to call it frosty.

A flash in his mind saw a robe clad Aziraphale brandishing a sword but cutting someone down with words instead. More effectively than the sword would have.

The angel continued, “But that does not alter the fact that you decided to have my body restored to me through these arduous means rather than just creating one for me nor the unnecessary pain you have put my…an innocent soul through.”

“Innocent?” Gabriel said and gave the impression that if it wasn’t beneath him, then he would have snorted. “He’s about as innocent as – “

“He is now, Gabriel. That is rather the point of such an endeavour. A clean slate. Forgiveness. That is part of what we’re supposed to be about, I believe. Or did we let the poor man suffer on that cross for nothing?”

Crowley had to admit that he didn’t understand much of what they were talking about. He could work out that the man on the cross was, if he believed Aziraphale to be the genuine article and he did, probably Jesus and he had a strong suspicion that he was meant as the innocent soul.

After all, there weren’t really many other candidates to fill that particular role, was there?

But the part about unnecessary pain he wasn’t as clear on and he did not understand the clean slate at all. Clean slate in relation to what, exactly?

_Demon…_

Part of him wanted to close the remaining distance down to them and…he didn’t quite know, exactly. Put himself in front of Aziraphale to act as a buffer? Wrap an arm around him and tell Gabriel to fuck off? Push the man out of his workshop, bodily if he had to?

Except, of course, that Gabriel wasn’t basically pipe cleaners that someone had bent to make a rough approximation of a man and then wrapped the stingiest amount of cheese wax around to give it some semblance of an actual body capable of surviving.

Yes, he worked with stone for a living and what flesh there was on him was as much muscle as anything but even so, it wasn’t merely Gabriel’s face that would’ve made him such an ideal candidate for those old-time cigarette ads.

Even so, Crowley was as willing to make the attempt as he had been when the cockwaffle had first entered his workshop, perhaps even more so, given that he now had something that he wanted to protect.

Part of him didn’t want to barge in, however. Not because he was scared, mind. He wanted to hear a little more of what they were talking about before he interrupted, to try to make something more coherent out of it.

In that part was also a worry that Aziraphale might not appreciate him barging in. Might in fact want him to stay away, for whatever reason, and that was why he’d been placed back in his bed.

Another thought struck and brought with it an unpleasant, but not entirely unexpected sensation.

Aziraphale had been trying to leave him, hadn’t he? That was why he’d been put back to bed. So that the chance, the risk, of him hearing the blond move about the workshop and, more importantly, out of it, and potentially waking from it to chase after him was greatly reduced, if not outright eliminated.

His heart clenched and lurched in his chest simultaneously at the thought, bringing with it much, if not all, of the hurt from before. At the same time, however, he knew he shouldn’t be surprised.

No matter how much it hurt and continued to hurt, that was all on him, wasn’t it? Aziraphale had no obligation to care about, much less comply with Crowley’s wishes now that he was a person of flesh and blood. Given that he was an angel, even less so, especially given that it sounded like he’d been brought back to ‘life’ by Crowley making a statue of him, as he would undoubtedly have other duties.

Duties which were far more important than a lonely, clingy sculptor, who was probably projecting onto the poor thing to try and make it all feel less entirely one-sided on his part than it actually was, could ever be.

Not that Crowley would be important to him had he been nothing more than a regular human, mind. He wanted to be but that was hardly the same thing at all.

For crying out loud, if Aziraphale was important enough to bring back from whatever limbo, literal or otherwise, that he’d been in until the ginger had managed to carve his likeness into stone, then what chance did Crowley stand? An angel on its own was mindboggling enough, but one with clearly that much importance?

Crowley should undoubtedly count himself lucky that not only had he been gifted with meeting an angel or even being comforted by it. Him. He had been granted the opportunity to have an angel be…reborn? That didn’t sound right but he didn’t know what else to call it.

_You didn’t want to take the commission, remember? In fact, you very pointedly didn’t take the commission._

Well, no – for good reason! Anyway, he’d still ended up making it, hadn’t he? He just hadn’t wanted to do Gabriel’s bidding. Not with his attitude, nor lack of payment nor, as Aziraphale started to emerge, his whole…being, for lack of a better term.

But that brought him round to another point; regardless of his own feelings in this debacle, Aziraphale did not belong…no, he belonged to no one, except, it seemed, God – part of Crowley knew he should reel more from the proof that there was a God than he was.

However, that didn’t mean the arse-chin had any right to be ordering Aziraphale about or expecting him to come with him, which seemed to be the gist of their current conversation.

Should he go down there at all, really? Or would it be better, for everyone, if he stayed up here? Let them finish whatever they intended to talk about while here and then allow them to disappear forever. Hopefully in the case of Gabriel but that was neither here nor there.

It undoubtedly would. He couldn’t think of any good argument for why it wouldn’t. At least, he could think of none that didn’t boil down to some variant of selfishness.

And yet, despite that knowledge, that self-insight – and his tendencies to overanalyse had never been simultaneously such a boon and such a bane to him as since he started sculpting the angel – he found that his feet had started to move on their own, carrying him down the stairs.

At first, he moved quietly, slowly but then, as he realised what he was doing, he straightened up and picked up the pace, after pausing for a short moment.

If he was going to do this…if he was going to be stupid enough to not leave well enough alone and realise when he ought to call it quits, for his own sake if nothing else…

If all of that was going to be ignored and he was going to throw himself to the wolves, angels, whichever, then he was going to do it with his head held as high as he could, his spine straight and his heart under control.

Perhaps that last part was rather too big of an ask but even with that out of the equation, there was no way he was going to allow _Gabriel_ of all people to see how he had been struggling.

Even if Aziraphale had said anything – and if he had, then it was bound to have been inadvertent, the ginger knew – that did not alter things for Crowley. Not in the circumstances.

He might go down in flames on the inside, but he was damned if he would allow the twizzle stick to see any of it.

With that, he covered the last few steps of the stairs and went in the direction of the voices, which had carried on talking. Not that they made much more sense in what they were talking about.

It seemed to be something about the way Aziraphale would have to make up for his failure and his over-expenditure beforehand and that he would pay, one way or the other, the implication seeming to suggest that it’d be with menaces or at least that something dear to him would be lost if he wasn’t careful. That was the impression that Crowley got from it, though he was a little bit biased, perhaps, and also thought he might not have heard that entirely right.

The blond in turn mentioned something about a She but though the capital letter was clearly audible, it didn’t make much sense.

However, when he then used the word, ‘ineffable’, Crowley stiffened as another jolt of familiarity and oddity shot through him.

The angel and the berk then both shut up as Crowley came towards them, having managed to slide back into the saunter he employed when having to deal with the public, such as at art galleries and similar. He was helped there by his body knowing what to do without consulting his brain.

Aziraphale smiled when he caught sight of him – in actual fact, he was softly beaming but Crowley refused to see it as such at that moment, or rather, didn’t feel that it could possibly be that – while Gabriel raised two unamused eyebrows.

One might even say that he sneered, just a little, in a way that suggested that Crowley was so beneath him that he wasn’t worth more of a reaction.

That actually managed to help Crowley, oddly enough.

Anger pushed hurt away or rather, it enclosed it like a shell encapsulating a delicate seed, not damaging it but making sure that if anything wanted to get at it, it would have to break the shell first and the shell wasn’t exactly thin.

“Well, look who it is,” Gabriel said, giving him the most perfunctory and yet dragging once-over possible with his eyes, the eyebrows and the sneer staying right where they were. As though he hadn’t clocked who it was the moment that he’d seen him. This was all for show. One meant to showcase just how unimportant and beneath him the ginger was.

Crowley for his part considered whether he should reply with something overly chipper, to see whether that would get up the other’s back. Or maybe drawn-out, polite sarcasm was the better way to go. Whichever the case, he wanted something that would show the muppet that he wasn’t that easily intimidated or dismissed. This was still his workshop, his territory, and whatever Gabriel’s connections, he could piss right the hell off. The heaven off?

So, what he ended up doing was continue to saunter, slowing down as he came closer until he came to a halt beside the blond. Part of him dearly wanted to stand right up close, perhaps even slip his arm around the other’s waist but however much he wanted to, he knew that it wasn’t his place and it wasn’t a good idea.

He’d already got more than he could reasonably expect, so best not push it further.

But he then returned the sneering look with one entirely unimpressed and unaffected, his mouth lifting in something that might be considered a smile and might be merely a small grimace. He did wish that he had his sunglasses. On the other hand, if his eyes managed to unsettle the berk, so much the better.

If it did, he didn’t show it.

“There you are,” Aziraphale said, and his voice was as warm as his smile. “I was starting to worry.”

Crowley, feeling his heart soar and break simultaneously, turned his head and gave a genuine smile, even if it was brief.

“Well, this has been lovely,” Gabriel said almost immediately, as people do when they use only the thinnest veneer of politeness and adherence to manners and social norms to get away with being insolent.

“What, you’re just going to leave without as much as a bye your leave?”

The dark-haired man paused in his step, having already turned away from the other two and towards the entrance, for only a moment.

“I do not need permission from one such as you,” Gabriel said and now the sneer was anything but subtle, even when it was purely audible as his back was turned.

“You needed me to make your statue for you,” Crowley pointed out.

“I could’ve had anyone fill that role.”

“Then why didn’t you?”

“Why did you then choose to make it, to such a high standard, when you said you had no intention of doing it at all?” Gabriel shot back, now almost pleasantly, still without turning around.

Crowley felt a nerve tick somewhere in his cheek. The cocky, arrogant sod.

“So, you clocked that, did you? And yet you completely ignored it and still expected me to have a statue ready for you when you wanted it. Without any regard to how long it actually takes to have something like a life-size statue made, too, because it’s not a bleeding plastic mould you can just poor liquid marble into and have something ready in a day or two.”

He managed to keep his voice relatively calm, if intense, throughout that, but he could hear the anger sparking at the edges.

Aziraphale looked at him but Crowley didn’t look back. If he did, he wasn’t sure he could continue, and he wanted to continue this. Part of him felt like it actually _needed _to continue; that there’d been something brewing inside of him concerning Gabriel. Which, of course there was, but it felt somehow as though it went further back than their first meeting.

If that was even their first meeting.

Fuck it all, he wished his brain would just shut up with all of these unhelpful comments and flashes that made him doubt almost everything he knew or thought he knew. This was hard enough as it was.

“You seem to have managed it, anyway. Well done. Now, I’ve had just about enough of this.”

With that, he began to walk again, his undoubtedly expensive shoes clacking against the floor, much like when he’d entered the workshop uninvited.

Expecting Aziraphale to move with him, Crowley turned to say goodbye before he walked past him.

Before he moved out of his workshop entirely and out of his life for good.

It’d be difficult, to say the least, and it’d hurt, he knew that. Probably far more than he was even expecting, but he was going to do it, regardless.

He felt he owed himself that much, not to mention Aziraphale.

As he turned, he had a small but sharp sensation of falling, much akin to the one he’d had in that very first dream where he’d seen Aziraphale, and he struggled to keep himself upright, not wishing the angel to see.

Not wanting him to…well, it was hardly as though he was going to walk away from their encounter – the title and melody for ‘Brief Encounter’ flitted through his mind and while apt enough in the circumstances, he felt cheated somehow that he didn’t even get to get as far as those characters had – with any sort of dignity, not after the stunt he’d pulled before he’d collapsed.

He managed to get it under some sort of control, enough to finish turning and look at the other, determined to see it through and, inwardly, just a little surprised that Aziraphale had still not passed him entirely, though that wasn’t really fair.

Though he couldn’t say he knew Aziraphale, not actually, not in any capacity that was concrete and non-ludicrous, he wouldn’t think the man would just meekly trot after someone like Gabriel, for all that he seemed to have some sort of hold over him.

Did that make Gabriel another angel? Not the…_the _angel Gabriel? The _arch_angel Gabriel? It couldn’t…but it could, couldn’t it? It made sense, much as he didn’t want it to, because…well, because he was struggling enough to come to terms with things as it was, which was hardly unreasonable, and to then have had a commission, one that he’d _refused_, from the archangel Gabriel…

Whatever. He was still a world class tosser twat, regardless of what his nature or rank was.

But then it would make a bit more sense why Aziraphale would follow orders from him, even though he was clearly not in any way enamoured with him. The fact that he’d argued against him at all was actually a bit surprising, in the context, but he had to admit, that only endeared the blond angel further to the sculptor, if that was even possible at this point.

Could angels be punished if they didn’t follow orders? Well, yes, obviously, he wasn’t that dumb, but there had to be something more to the scale of disobedience than ‘one mistake or slight insubordination and you’re Fallen’. That seemed unreasonably harsh, at least to the ginger.

There was another slight feeling of falling, this time accompanied by a burning sensation on his back, but as he didn’t understand it, he pushed it aside, into the rest of the mess in his head, to deal with later.

He’d have plenty of opportunity to deal with it later, after all. Well, what time he didn’t bury himself in work to be able to cope with his impending solitude, of course.

Given all of that, Crowley was therefore very surprised to find that Aziraphale had not only not moved even an inch from his place beside him, he didn’t look like he had any intention of moving, either, which was actually more of a surprise than him not moving in the first place.

To the ginger’s look of disbelief, which he couldn’t quite contain, Aziraphale merely smiled.

It was a smile that was apologetic and melancholic, if not downright sad, while being simultaneously genuinely happy, it had to be said, however that made any sort of sense.

Fair to say, it didn’t do much to soothe Crowley’s confused, battered, much tried heart.

He opened his mouth, though to say what exactly, he wasn’t sure. Make a quip about this brief encounter, with an angel, no less, or one about the price of the marble, to try and put some mental distance between it and himself. Ask why the angel wasn’t going with his presumed boss, or at least superior, perhaps. Whether this meant he was going to defy him outright and stay, if only perhaps for a little while.

Part of him wanted to ask whether Aziraphale might stay with him, and an even smaller part wanted desperately to beg for him to do so, but he didn’t dare do either of them.

In the end, he didn’t get to voice any of it, because he was interrupted.

Gabriel hadn’t seemed to notice that anything was amiss as he’d walked towards the exit, which seemed rather par for the course for him. Now, standing in front of the door, he appeared to realise that something, some_one_ was missing.

“If you are _quite _finished, Aziraphale,” he said, hand on the handle and no apparent intention to turn around, and though it was very subtle, Crowley thought he heard the hint of a warning in that voice. The sort of hint where the next one you got was fangs embedded in your throat.

Crowley looked back to the blond.

He would’ve expected…no, to be honest, he wouldn’t have been able to say just what he would’ve expected, really. Only that the calm, determined, almost defiant look definitely wasn’t it.

“I don’t believe I am, Gabriel, as a matter of fact, no,” he said, and there wasn’t even the tiniest hint of hesitation or uncertainty in that voice. Crowley would know, as he was listening for it.

The berk stiffened and though it was only for a second, it was all the more noticeable for it, even at the distance there was between where Crowley and Aziraphale stood and the front door. This might be a workshop for a sculptor, now, but it had been something industrial when it had been built, with the scale to match, and said space was, perhaps not filled but quite decorated with statues and other sculptures in various states of readiness, some of them abandoned and some remaining merely as a form of showcase.

Gabriel was the sort of person who’d stand out in a monochrome ‘Where’s Wally?’ picture, however, and so it was easy enough to see where he was and how he behaved.

“I beg your pardon?” he said.

“I believe you heard me perfectly well.”

The dark-haired man turned suddenly on his heels and if not marched, then at least strode like some sort of predator back the way he’d come, his purplish eyes narrowed and on the point of blazing. Just on the point, but it was a close thing.

Crowley felt an instinct tug at him then, one that said to get away and do it as quickly as he possibly could. That what was coming towards him was something that could not only kill him but utterly obliterate him.

Which was odd, because to look at him, you wouldn’t have said that Gabriel had changed. It was the same suit, same hair. Same face and expression, even, though maybe the latter was a tad stonier than before. There was no indication of wings whatsoever, either.

And yet…

Yet the implication was clear as anything. Moreover, he got the feeling that it would be business-like and cool, yet somehow incredibly painful.

Aziraphale might survive it but even as collateral damage, the ginger felt absolutely certain that he would be nothing but an interesting smear on the floor that an estate agent would have to explain away.

The only sensible thing, therefore, would be to run. Run and never look back.

So, what did Crowley do?

Move even closer to Aziraphale, though without touching him. In fact, he moved slightly in front of him, as a competing instinct said to protect the angel – though there was the thought of ‘his angel’, he ignored that for the sake of his heart – from any possible danger.

If he was going to be a more or less interesting smear on the workshop floor, and he had the rather strong suspicion, much as he didn’t like it, that he was, whether he ran or stood his ground, then…

Then he would at least do something in his last moments that he could square with himself and be proud of.

Nothing else may have really panned out for him, apart from the sculpting, but this…this he could do.

This he could get right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's not as long a chapter as last time but it's still not short and, quite frankly, I had a bit of a ride just writing this. Well, that and I've put updates on four stories across two fandoms up these last two days, that's almost 20k words...so I'm a bit...tired.  
But at least we got some answers, yeah? The start of them, anyway. Hope they were worth the wait.


	10. Facing Gabriel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley and Aziraphale stand up to Gabriel, together, and Crowley, inadvertently, gets some answers. Sort of, at least.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your patience and kindness. This whole situation isn't made easier with brain fatique, lemme tell you...so thank you to all of you! <3

He thought he saw Gabriel’s eyes flash as he stared at the two of them, stared them down as he approached. Normally, such a term was more of an abstract description, a metaphor for what was really happening.

Not here. This time, impossible though it seemed – and that was even considering all the rest of the utter madness that happened within the last 48 hours – the eyes really did flash, a bright lilac that ought to be a lot less disconcerting than it actually was.

That was actually a good way to describe this entire scene.

Regardless, Crowley stood his ground. He felt a hand on his arm, gentle but pleading, it seemed, but he ignored it.

This, he was going to get right.

Though the walk from the front door to where they’d been standing wasn’t all that great, it nevertheless felt as though it took Gabriel a very long time to reach them, something which the ginger couldn’t decide was a good thing or not. On the one hand, it gave him a few more moments to be alive. On the other, it gave him a few more moments to be alive, and contemplate just what was about to happen to him.

When Gabriel was less than three feet for them, the hand on his arm, which hadn’t disappeared, became a full-out grip. One tight enough to wrap around his arm and strong enough to yank at him.

It took him by surprise and therefore his resistance might not have been what it otherwise would have, but even without that, he wasn’t entirely sure he could’ve resisted the pull, that was, the physical pull, of the angel.

He was pulled behind in one fluid motion at the same time as Aziraphale stepped forward. He wasn’t quite in front of the ginger, but it was a close enough. When his wings manifested and spread out, they certainly completed the job of obscuring and shielding Crowley.

Gabriel stopped in his tracks at that. That did not, however, in any way give the impression that he had relented somehow. Some might say it was the complete opposite.

His eyes took in the scene in front of him and the disdain was about as crystal clear as it could possibly be.

“You are not in a position to openly defy like that, Aziraphale,” he said, that same disdain in his voice, and the words came out of slightly gritted teeth, which Crowley hadn’t been expecting. “That…thing has served its purpose, at long last, and there is no longer any use for it to exist.”

The words sliced through Crowley like the proverbial knife. Except that it had a serrated edge that hooked and ripped as it went.

Being called a ‘thing’ was harsh enough. Even worse than being named a ‘demon’, because at least a demon was a sentient being, even if it was the ultimate enemy, barring Lucifer himself, of angels.

Had it only been that, though, he might have been able to brush it off and just accept it as something Gabriel did. Much worse than ‘demon’, yes, but ultimately just another way to name call, and Crowley was familiar with that, after all.

What really did the trick, however, what ripped and tore – what _burned, _with a fire that he hadn’t thought was possible – was the casual, cavalier dismissal of not just his being but his existence. A thing that had outlasted its usefulness and ought now to be discarded as nothing more special than a used paper towel.

Was that how angels saw humans? Weren’t they supposed to be benevolent, full of grace and all that? Caring, forgiving? Beings of _love_? Where was _any _of that behaviour in Gabriel?

There was in Aziraphale, he knew that without a shadow of a doubt, but Crowley had already, though he couldn’t articulate quite why that was or whether it wasn’t at least partially wishful thinking on his part, decided that even among angels, Aziraphale was something more than most.

But was there none at all to be found in other angels towards humanity as a whole? He couldn’t imagine that Gabriel wasn’t representative, though again, he couldn’t say why that was, precisely.

Or was it purely Crowley that got this sort of treatment?

_My, don’t I feel **special**?_

The thought, though not exactly appropriate in the circumstances, was strangely helpful in terms of dealing.

Not that it probably mattered. For all that Aziraphale had gone between, Crowley had little if any doubt that ‘smear’ was his near future.

And he hadn’t even been able to stand his ground and protect Aziraphale as he should have. As he’d promised himself to.

Technically, he could, or try to, at least. It was only a few steps, after all, it wasn’t as though it was difficult. He might even be able to wallop Gabriel one while he was at it.

But there was still a hand gripping his arm and it hadn’t exactly let up on its hold, as though to say that he could step forward, but it really wouldn’t be the smart move.

Which it would probably be entirely right about.

“Use?” Aziraphale echoed and his tone voice was once again cold, edging on frosty. “Humans aren’t merely things to _use_ for whatever purpose you need doing then discard them as so much rubbish.”

Gabriel snorted, just slightly, as though something about what had been said mildly amused him.

His voice, when he spoke, however, was not amused in the slightest. “But he isn’t human, is he?”

What the hell did he keep going on about? Of course, Crowley was human. Ignoring the two bouts of name calling, what else would he be?

Another image flashed through his mind at that, too fast to get more than a feeling from, one of dreary drudgery and a kaleidoscope of utter misery. That and, well, the smell. The smell of brimstone marinated in swampy sewer water was quick and, though it ought to faint owing to not being a real scent, it scratched in his nostrils as though it was physically there.

He ignored it, though. That was just par for the course at this point.

If he made it out of this alive, _somehow_, he ought to invest some money in a very good psychiatrist. One that wasn’t going to medicate him into oblivion because this walked the tightrope between fantastical impossibility and realistic mundanity too high and far too wobbly for any amount of comfort.

“That is as it may be,” Aziraphale said, to Crowley’s initial surprise, before he continued, “or rather it was. Now, he is, with all that that entails. You cannot destroy him merely because he’s fulfilled his use to you.”

The wings stretched further out and up at that, even though they’d already seemed as big as they could get.

“I can do what – what is best.”

The ginger didn’t miss the pause and the change in words. He believed the words that weren’t said.

He also believed that Gabriel was able to revoke the body Aziraphale had been granted through his statue, and even more, if he felt like it.

Surely, the arguably most famous angel, the one who’d told Mary she was pregnant with the son of God, was not only capable of doing what he’d implied, but willing to do it and what was more, would be allowed to do it with complete impunity.

Well, perhaps he might be admonished but it seemed highly unlikely that it’d ever be more than that.

In that light, what did Crowley matter? How could one measly human life ever compare to the life of an angel, let alone one that was important enough to be brought back from limbo, either a metaphorical one or a physical one? Think of all the good he’d be able to do.

It certainly outweighed one sculptor, that was for sure.

“Aziraphale, it’s okay,” he said, voice soft.

Nevertheless, the head of the blond immediately almost whipped around, the wing lowering just enough to allow him to see over the top of it to the ginger. His grip on the arm tightened further for a moment as Crowley tried to move forward.

Blue eyes narrowed at him as he became the recipient of that stare, though admittedly it was cool rather than outright cold or frosty.

“Really, it is.”

Again, he tried to step forward and again the hand tightened.

“No,” the angel said and there was not mere firmness in that voice or even cold. There was command. There was steel. “It is not.”

“Listen to the thing, Aziraphale. It’s practically offering itself up to – “

“Shut _up.”_

The archangel blinked and his head reared backwards a little, as though he was shocked to have someone, not just a subordinate but anyone, speak to him like that.

It was probably a turn-up for the books, though, in all likelihood.

Aziraphale turned his head back to face Gabriel though his grip on Crowley’s arm didn’t release or even loosen much.

“He is not a thing. Even as a demon, he was not a, a _thing.” _The voice cracked a little at that, but the blond swallowed audibly and then continued as though nothing had happened.

“He is most certainly not a thing now, either, and the fact that he has been given this…this _chance _is not something you have the right to take away from him merely because of what he was or, or because you feel like it.”

To be fair to Aziraphale, it neither looked nor sounded like it was exactly easy for him to be this defiant of his evident superior. He was persevering, however, regardless.

“Chance? What chance?”

The words came from Gabriel but most unusually, they echoed the thoughts running through Crowley’s mind.

“As though you are not already perfectly aware,” Aziraphale said and if Crowley didn’t know better, he would’ve said that there was a slight sniff to it.

Which was…he had not been expecting that.

“That does not alter the fact that – “

“It does,” the blond cut him off. “It makes _all_ the difference, in fact.”

“Aziraphale, please. Don’t.” Though he didn’t want to show weakness in front of Gabriel, he was much more concerned with getting across what he needed to say to Aziraphale.

The angel turned back to face him.

“It’s okay,” Crowley repeated. “It’s not – I don’t want him to hurt you.” _Especially not on my account._

Aziraphale looked nonplussed. “He is not going to hurt me.”

“He is!” The outburst was fuelled by fear and not a small amount of anger, as well. How could Aziraphale fail to see that Gabriel would gladly – would have no trouble with –

“He will if you don’t, don’t move – “

The hand on his arm slid down until it was gripping his own hand instead, with the same amount of pressure. Nevertheless, and ignoring the circumstances where it really wasn’t the time, there was a part of Crowley that couldn’t help but sing at the unexpected touch.

Not just touch, either, but an actual hand holding his, though obviously, that was not the intention.

Right?

“He will not.”

That unshakeable certainty was grating across every nerve in the sculptor’s body.

“Aziraphale!” Crowley felt like snarling or at least snapping as he said it, and oddly enough, even in this context, like hissing. “This is not the time for being stupidly heroic or just stupid full stop!”

Blue eyes, caught somewhere between icy and steely, just returned the glare from yellow ones.

Crowley stepped closer, pushing against the arm that still tried to prevent him.

“I am not worth that,” he said and this time, it was a hiss as much as it was an outright plead.

There was nothing the angel could deflect with there, nothing that would be remotely convincing if he tried to say he wasn’t doing it for Crowley. He had his bleeding – no, not bleeding, thank God for that – his blessed wings out to block the ginger from Gabriel’s view, for crying out loud!

But that wasn’t what Aziraphale did. Not even close.

Instead, his expression softened, that warmth that Crowley already so intimately associated with the angel, that he had sought to bring out when he’d thought he was nothing…had thought he was almost purely a figment of his imagination that he was trying to bring to life, blossoming between the steel and ice.

‘To life’ didn’t even begin to cover it, did it?

_And soon enough ‘to death’ if you don’t do something._

“You are,” Aziraphale said and though his voice was soft and without steel, there was still a firmness, a quiet decisiveness that brooked no argument. “You always were, my dearest.”

“Traitor.”

If Crowley had been surprised to hear himself hiss, it was nothing in comparison to hearing Gabriel do it. That it was far more menacing, even at is quiet volume, than the sculptor ever thought he’d be able to achieve, was no real shock, however. If anything, that was what he’d have expected if he’d thought about it.

Both Crowley and Aziraphale turned to look at the dark-haired man, whose contempt had been only barely visible up until now but was evidently starting to seep through at the seams.

“You may think you’ll be forgiven for siding with such a…a _creature_, given your history, but think again, sunshine.”

For a moment, Aziraphale looked as though he was afraid or at least as if he were having doubts about what he was doing. Even Crowley, looking at him out of the corner of his eye more than anything, caught it. He couldn’t find it in him to blame or feel let down by that doubt, however, much as he might be expected to. It was hardly as though he didn’t understand where it was coming from, after all.

That it faded away was the more unexpected thing, especially as quickly as it did.

“You’d destroy me for that, Gabriel?” Aziraphale asked, sounding hurt and sad rather than scared. “For an act of kindness towards the person who brought my corporation back into being, with an astonishing amount of not only detail, but care – when the entirety of Heaven singularly failed to do it, too.”

The blond angel took a step closer to the taller one, though he still held onto the hand of the redhead, neatly managing to step more in front of him again.

Even so, Crowley had to strain his ears quite a lot to hear what he said next.

“To have Crowley be reborn as human was not the idea of Satan, Gabriel, nor the work of Hell.”

Reborn? What did he mean, ‘reborn’? Reincarnation was, at least as far as he knew, not something practiced in Christianity. Or Judaism, though he was somewhat more on shaky ground there.

“A human may be damned, yes, but it may be also reach salvation,” Aziraphale continued, keeping his voice incredibly quiet, “something that is not granted to demons. If you consider all of that, is it still a smart move to try and kill the one demon who has been granted this turn at redemption?”

Gabriel opened his mouth, glaring at the shorter angel as he did so, but he soon enough closed it again.

“He will die sooner or later.”

“But dead by the wrath of an angel? Without any real reason?” Crowley couldn’t see it but Aziraphale smiled. “I should consider just who has granted him that turn. It was not me. I know that much.”

The archangel sneered at that, openly.

He didn’t say anything, however, and with another sneering glare at Crowley, he turned on his heels as though they hurt for him to look at a second longer and walked away again.

As he did so, he called out, “You will be expected in Heaven soon, Aziraphale.”

A pause, then, slowly, clearly, deliberately, “_She _expects you.”

With that, he was gone, without even the catharsis of a door slamming shut. The threat vanished as though it had never been there in the first place.

Crowley knew better, though. He could still feel the energy in the room, the sense that time had stood still somehow, even though his inner world was something of a playground roundabout, spinning irregularly but still hard enough to make him dizzy.

She? Who? God? God was a…well, why not?

The bit about ‘demon’ in relation to himself, however, that was what had him properly confused, not to mention worried, and it didn’t help that images, vague but clear at the same time, flashed by in his mind in greater numbers than before.

Why demon? Had he – what had he done? To become an outright, actual demon, what monstrous act had he committed in…a past life? Surely, humans that ended in Hell just got to experience the, well, the customer side of things, as it were, they didn’t get to be part of the action.

Or maybe the particularly nasty ones did? Could you earn marks in Hell? Save up enough nasty deeds stickers and you got sent the pitchfork, that sort of thing? Another bout of stickers sent, and they got you your horns and tail?

But then there was the talk about second chances, of being ‘reborn’ as a human. Were they really saying –? Well, obviously, yes, they had, he wasn’t that daft not to pick up on something like that. But that didn’t mean it was easy to wrap his head around.

He wasn’t a demon, nor had he been one. That he felt almost a hundred percent in saying and yet…

Yet he couldn’t imagine Aziraphale would mention it if he didn’t at least believe it to be true, and Gabriel most certainly wouldn’t. It would also make more sense of why he’d been…well, no. Gabriel seemed to treat everyone like that, more or less, but it would explain a bit why Crowley got the upgraded version, as it were, and why he’d been referred to as ‘thing’.

There were other things as well, such as the inexplicable flashes, the dreams, especially the one that had kicked it all off, and the fact that Aziraphale’s name had just come to him, out of the blue. Not to mention how the angel had behaved towards him when they’d first met. In the flesh, anyway.

If he was, or had been, a demon, however, why would Aziraphale know him by name or having had associated with him when he was a demon, let alone protect him from not just a fellow angel but his evident superior? By all logic, he ought to be siding with Gabriel, not Crowley.

All in all, it made for the sort of cocktail that you’d be swearing off for life after having only the one drink of it, possibly only a sip.

He didn’t realise that he’d been squeezing the hand, the one that was still in his despite the danger having passed, and doing so quite hard, until the hand in his shifted.

His first thought at that was that Aziraphale had just realised they were indeed still holding hands, but that he no longer needed to and so was pulling his hand free, not wanting it to continue.

Crowley didn’t want that to happen, afraid that he wasn’t just going to pull away with his hand. At the same time, he had promised himself that he wouldn’t be clingy when it came to Aziraphale, and that wasn’t going to change, just because of this.

He didn’t want the angel to hate him, after all. Nor feel as though he’d made a mistake by protecting Crowley like that. Which had gotten him into trouble with his superior, too.

So, he prepared himself and loosened his grip in turn, to show that he understood.

Therefore, he was surprised when instead of letting go, the blond merely shifted his grip into something more…not exactly relaxed but less tense, at least, even as he made up for Crowley’s now very loose grip.

Aziraphale turned more fully to Crowley and looked him up and down, the small smile of relief and joy turning upside down into a frown of concern.

“Oh, dear,” he said, quietly, as he took the other in.

“I’m fine,” Crowley said. It would’ve been something if he could’ve sounded even remotely convincing when he said it. Ideally, of course, he would look it and feel it, too, but you couldn’t have everything.

Having something would be nice, however. But he guessed that wasn't for the likes of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's even shorter than last time, I believe, and you have all been very patient, kind and understanding (for which I thank you). I do hope the content makes up for it (I've written a bit more than this but it just...it did not fit with the mood of the previous bit), at least somewhat.  
I also hope that the Gabriel confrontation wasn't too bad.


	11. Sleep tight, my dear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale answers some questions for Crowley and then keeps watch as he falls asleep. Unfortunately, his brain starts thinking thoughts...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Earlier for a change, right? Right?  
Just a heads up so you're (hopefully) not confused - we shift to Aziraphale's POV while Crowley sleeps then shift back. Yes, there's a reason.

The smile returned at that, but the frown didn’t leave. It created an effect much like those pictures where the same face has both a frown and a smile and you’re only supposed to see one or the other when you turn the picture upside-down and back, but your eyes are trying to circumnavigate the trick and sees both, superimposing them on one another.

The angel didn’t say anything, however. Instead, he let go of the hand completely, which made Crowley’s anxiety spike again. But then the hand landed on his hip and while Aziraphale didn’t quite pull him against him, he pulled him close enough that he could steer him, which he did.

Towards what wasn’t difficult to have a guess at, given the state the blond clearly thought he was in.

The workshop wasn’t exactly overflowing with soft furnishings and going up the stairs to his little flat was…not an option right now.

So, Crowley assumed, even though his thoughts were somewhat foggy, that what he would be led to, to sit in, was his throne-chair. It wasn’t comfortable, per se, but it did have a high back and armrests, which would keep him in the seat, at least ideally.

So, he was somewhat surprised to find that they were avoiding his desk altogether and instead moving to a small, secluded area at the very back. There were a few materials here but nothing that would be wise to sit on. He knew that.

Except…there was.

A sofa, looking like something out of an old granny’s home or perhaps more charitably out of an antiques shop. Perhaps somewhere in between, stuffy and ornamental like an antique, well-worn and comfortable like that of an old gran’s sofa.

He didn’t own this sofa. Things were still spinning like the playground roundabout in Crowley’s head, both in terms of what he’d learned during the meeting with Gabriel and already knew or had worked out as well as a result of expending energy he didn’t have, but he felt certain, adamant, even, that it hadn’t been there before. He would’ve remembered, he knew.

But where else could it have come from?

He was guided onto it carefully, as though he’d fall over or worse if he was left to do it on his own. Which was, to be fair, entirely possible in the circumstances.

Once he was placed on the seat and didn’t look in danger of falling, Aziraphale actually settled down beside him. Not right up close so that they touched but the inch or less between them really wasn’t much to speak of.

He’d otherwise let go of the redhead entirely, though, and so Crowley had to summon a mental presence he didn’t feel he had to keep from closing the gap or touch what he shouldn’t.

Whether it helped or hindered that he also had to keep hold of so many other things in his mind, he had no idea. It certainly helped to keep everything hazy.

“I really ought to put you to bed, oughtn’t I?” Aziraphale muttered, and he had to be talking to himself. It would be much more comfortable, and you could get some proper rest.”

But Crowley shook his head at it, regardless, his movements slow by necessity.

“Don’t want to sleep.”

If he did that, then…well, first off, there was the continued risk that Aziraphale would’ve buggered off when he woke – the thought that he’d wake to find that it had never happened had somewhat evaporated by this point. Secondly, he could hardly afford to fall any further behind than he already was with the statues that he was supposed to be doing.

Aziraphale seemed to pick up on at least the latter issue. He hesitated, looking guilty, then resolve born of hope seeped into his expression. “I am sure your patrons will be very understanding if it is explained to them that you’ve been…feeling poorly.”

Crowley almost barked out a laugh at that, though there was little to any amusement in it. Or would’ve been, had he let it out.

Feeling poorly. Wasn’t that a simultaneously apt and utterly inaccurate description for what he was feeling and what he’d been going through?

He stayed his tongue, though, and instead said, mumbling just a little, “Not how it works. I have a deadline; I need to meet it, or I run the risk of appearing unreliable and then I will not get any further commissions, from them nor likely from anyone else. It’s a surprisingly connected circle that still pays for sculptures.”

Though it wasn’t an outright laugh, he did let out a small, barely amused snort at that, the corners of his lips twitching like a dying bug.

“Guess Gabriel did make good on his threat, then, after all, didn’t he?” he said, staring out in front of him at nothing. It was better than the alternative, which he wasn’t at all sure he could handle right now. Not if he wanted to keep from doing anything stupid.

_And then I go and spoil it all…eh?_

“You’re still alive.” The sudden urgency in the angel’s voice at that seemed odd at first but then made a lot of sense. And it made Crowley’s heart clench, for the angel rather than himself.

He also thought he could feel the other tense up beside him. Well, tense up further than he already had, anyway.

“What? Oh. No, not that.”

He had to take a moment to focus. “I meant…meant that when he came here the first time and wanted me to do…” He bit down on what he’d been about to say.

‘Do you’ sounded not only dirty, crass and wrong, especially considering who, what he was talking to, it veered a bit too close to one of the things he wanted from the blond and shouldn’t.

Instead, he continued, “…do your statue for him, he…well, he basically threatened me that if I didn’t, I would be,” he searched for the words that had been used, “needing other useful skills. Something like that, anyway. He wasn’t as gauze as to threaten me outright, but I think the message was pretty clear.

“I believe you meant ‘gauche’ rather than ‘gauze’, but I see what you mean.”

Though they weren’t touching, Crowley could still feel at least some of Aziraphale’s tension leak out. Not all of it, though, and a frown was in place on his face.

“Don’t worry about it,” Crowley murmured, turning his gaze quickly away again.

Everything was so much of a mess right now that the fact that he might have brought himself into unemployment as a consequence of all that had happened didn’t bother him. It should, he knew, and later on, it unquestionably would, but as it was, it was a distant, irrelevant thing that he couldn’t reach and consequently, care about.

“I probably buggered that up earlier, entirely on my own.”

“You would hardly have been in a position where that was in jeopardy if Gabriel hadn’t picked you for that…project.”

Was that a tinge of guilt he heard in that voice? Not just a tinge, really, more of a downright coating. Which wasn’t right. Aziraphale wasn’t to know, was he? How could he, after all, if he had indeed been stuck in limbo?

Something rang in the very back of his mind, something taught by his too-dearly-by-half-departed mother, about how limbo wasn’t actually a thing, but given that it had been delivered by her, perhaps he shouldn’t take it as…well…

Even if he were, he wasn’t the one making the decisions, as far as Crowley could work out. Not until the confrontation the redhead had just witnessed, anyway.

“I refused the project.”

“Oh, he made sure that you would do it, regardless of what you said.”

Crowley cracked open an eye he hadn’t realised he’d closed in the first place, to look over at the other.

“I should be more surprised at that than I am. More outraged, too, really, but both seem like they’re very Gabriel.”

Aziraphale sighed at that. “On that, you are entirely correct, I’m afraid, much as I am loath to say it.”

“Why loath?”

A small pause. “Honestly? I suspect force of habit more than anything.”

“Is he…is he really, well, _that_ Gabriel?”

“The archangel Gabriel, you mean?” A small nod. “Yes, I’m afraid so.”

Well, that was an interesting phrasing, wasn’t it?

“So…he’s your boss.”

“We are all servants of God.”

“Yeah, yeah, but in the, the hierarchy, or whatever, of angels, he ranks above you.”

Aziraphale released a shortly held breath like a small mushroom puffing out spores. He also fidgeted, just a little. “Technically speaking, that rather depends.”

“No? But archangel – “

“Are not the highest ranks of angels, not with a lower case ‘a’, in any case. If you extend the definition of Archangel –”

“Where you pronounce the capital ‘A’, you mean?”

“Yes, exactly. But then, it might be said that Archangel actually refers to the Seraphim, which are the highest of all angelic ranks.”

“Where do you fit in, then?”

There was another fidget, which Crowley could mainly feel because it brushed a thigh up against his for a moment. An all too brief moment.

“I’m a Principality.”

“And what’s that?”

“Oh, it’s quite – “Aziraphale hesitated then sighed. He didn’t sound disappointed, however, more like he had just remembered himself and realised that it wasn’t really the time for this. “But perhaps that is for another time. You truly do seem like you require some proper rest, my dear.”

Crowley’s heart did a small leap at the words ‘another time’ and what they seemed to imply. However, he pushed it back down immediately, so as not to cause himself further suffering, as well as be prepared for the inevitable outcome.

Even so, or perhaps because of that, he shook his head, though he knew was being ridiculous and obstinate more than anything. There was a reason for it, of course, but what did that have to do with anything?

“Crowley…”

“No…I’m not going.” Not to sleep and certainly not up the stairs. He wasn’t even sure he’d be able to make it.

“My dear, you’re swaying and trembling, not to mention you’re pallid. You need some rest.”

The ginger shook his head, but slowly, so as not to set the roundabout turning faster. “If I do, you’re going to be gone when I wake. I know it.”

He hadn’t meant to say that out loud. Of course, it wasn’t as though he had much if any dignity left when it came to his interactions with the angel but there was such a thing as not keep on digging.

“Oh, Crowley…”

His hand was grabbed at that and while not exactly outright squeezed, then at least held tightly.

“I will not be gone when you wake, I promise you.”

Crowley didn’t say anything at that, but his expression must’ve betrayed that while he wanted to believe the angel, he couldn’t bring himself to do it, and certainly not fully; when he turned his head a little, he could see it in the way Aziraphale’s face fell.

The hand in his loosened at that but didn’t let go entirely. An odd no-man’s land between the two, it felt like.

Crowley closed his eyes. That was to say, his eyes closed on him and he wasn’t in a position to stop it, much as he wanted to and. That said, he fought hard to get a last look of Aziraphale, in the back of his mind noting that he’d had to say goodbye to the angel twice now, in much the same way. There was probably something poetic in that. That or just something pathetic. Either or, really.

Aziraphale was also smiling at him. Had he done that before? He had. Crowley felt sure that he had but couldn’t place the image.

Well, then at least this might be a clearer image to be left with. It could go with that very lovely feeling that had surrounded him when he’d fallen asleep last. That would be nice.

_Oh, yes? Just add some floral decorations around the edges and you’re golden._

Oh, and his inner voice was never far away, was it? A very small part of him couldn’t help but wonder what it took to kill it, permanently.

But the lovely feeling wasn’t the only thing he’d been left with, was it? He thought he could remember the ghost of…

No, that was wishful thinking conflating with the peck he had got. Nothing more, however much he wished it to be.

He did gather enough courage to retighten the grip their hands had, however.

A very small noise, so faint that he wasn’t sure he’d heard it in the first place, came from the angel at that. However, he didn’t pull his hand away, as Crowley had expected.

_After all of this, I don’t care what precautions you need to take in order to get the right therapist that won’t run screaming or commit you, but whoever that is and however much they’re going to cost, you are going to fork out the bleeding money for the best you can possibly get._

For once, his inner voice not only had a point, it managed to deliver it without snark or other ‘clever’ comments.

It went on, _Because, if you allow any of this to run around your mind, let alone your subconscious, without anyone to help dam it up, you’re going to be in for a tremendous amount of pain and tears, my friend._

Yes, he would. If he wouldn’t get bankrupted by it all, now that he…

_Hold on, hold on, there is far too many things stuffed into that one thought. It’s too much for you to deal with as it stands and you’re just going to wake up in a cold sweat and hurt yourself._

Ever so helpful, all of a sudden, are you? Where the bleeding fuck were you earlier when Berk-twattle Arch-in-my-arse decided to show his face? You kept awfully quiet then, I notice.

Yes, so he sneered at it a little. Perhaps more than a little, but could anyone honestly blame him after all that?

Besides, he was slipping down into sleep regardless of what he did, anyway.

His eyelids had closed some time previously and the rest of his body seemed determined to follow him down into the depths at an accelerated rate, as though to make up for it, somehow.

“Aziraphale,” he managed, his eyelids fluttering but not opening.

“I’m not going, dear, I promise. I do promise. Get some rest. You need it.” There was a huff of breath, possibly a small laugh. “You always did so extol the virtues of sleep to me and now you shun them as though they have done you wrong.”

He mumbled something at that, though it couldn’t have been anything remotely intelligible. His head lolled a little on the back of the sofa, though it didn’t yet decide to mortify him by lolling all the way over to Aziraphale’s shoulder.

If that happened, he felt sure he’d kill himself from sheer embarrassment. No angelic intervention needed. Not even any arch-angelic ones.

He didn’t catch that Aziraphale said something himself a minute or two later. Nor that the fingers of a plump hand smoothed across his forehead to brush some of the errant strands of ginger hair from it. Carefully, gently.

Lovingly.

He was more than deeply asleep by that point, unfortunately, and so only his sleeping form, and those of the unfinished statues around them, heard what Aziraphale said next.

“I will not leave you again, my dearest, not truly. I can only deeply regret that which brought us into this unfortunate situation to begin with but…”

He paused, both in speaking and in continuing to smooth away the, by now, hairs that was no longer there as he stared in front of him, unseeing. Then he bent and pressed his lips against the soft, but warm skin that was even now creased in slight worry.

“I have finally found you again,” he said when he lifted his head again, staring down at the sleeping vision that was his friend.

His current corporation had changed surprisingly little from what Aziraphale had known as a demon and, by the very sparse accounts he could gather before and after his time spent without a vessel to inhabit, what he had looked like as an angel. In all three he was gorgeous – and brave and beyond kind, it seemed, even if he would’ve scoffed and derided the notion had he still been a demon.

But, of course, he was. What else could he possibly be?

Blue eyes welled up a little at that and droplets landed on golden skin.

“I have found you,” Aziraphale repeated and his voice was more than a little choked as he spoke, “and I will not allow anything to separate you from me again. Not for long and never forever, not unless that is your wish. That I promise.”

_Not even death?_

The question bubbled up into his mind entirely unbidden but now that it had, it refused to go away.

_Even if he leads a blameless life from now on, or even one good enough to get him into Heaven, and the likelihood of that is very small indeed, to the point of nonexistence, with Gabriel now not only aware of him but actively looking for an excuse to exclude him from, more or less, re-entering…_

_Even if he is lucky enough and virtuous enough, perhaps with a bit of help and guidance, to end up in Heaven once his life is over with, he will be a mortal that has been granted salvation. _

_A human. Not an angel. Nor a demon. From now on, always a human._

_You might be close, you might even be what Crowley might term ‘together’, if things work out the way you hope them to and they seem like they might, given how he’s reacted so far. But even if you might manage that, you will still not, ultimately, be a true pair. _

_The difference in power, in influence and level is greater than it has ever been between you. Too great, perhaps. Even as an angel and demon, the footing was relatively equal, even if you approached it from different sides, as it were, but now? _

_Now you are and will forever be a mortal and an immortal. Two entirely separate beings, on two different planes of existence._

If it hadn’t been for him, Gabriel would’ve killed him there and then.

_If it hadn’t been for you, Gabriel wouldn’t have needed anyone to make a statue of in the first place, would he? And that’s not even getting into the rest of it._

But there could’ve been other ways. There had to have been other, safer ways of bringing him back. Ones that didn’t involve Crowley’s new, entirely human corporation.

_Would you have wanted them, though? Or are you secretly pleased that you have been reunited with him in this way?_

No!

_Really?_

Of course, he wasn’t!

Or, well, yes, he _supposed _he was, very much so, as well, but that…that was completely beside the point!

_Is it? When the chance of you otherwise getting to see him, not to mention genuinely touch him – which, well… – was as good as nothing, is it really beside the point? Or is that just the more easily digestible lie to tell yourself?_

_Would you honestly have chosen another solution than this?_

The angel looked away.

_Look at him. Look at him and answer yourself that question._

Aziraphale licked his lips, swallowed and blew out a shaky breath. However, he did, after closing his eyes for a moment, reopen them and look back over at his demon, his dearest. His Crowley.

No.

No, he would not. Not if it meant that he didn’t get to see Crowley at all.

It might be for much shorter than he would want it to be, with a much greater price to pay – and the thought of what might happen to him if he died and ended up in _Hell, _for whatever reason, was too horrible to contemplate, even though Aziraphale knew he would have to, sooner or later – and it might end up being cruel, on either or both of them, far more than either of them could deal with, even.

But looking at him, now, quiet, peaceful, vulnerable and trusting as he sat slumped there, more than exhausted from the ordeal the two celestials had put him through, so unlike and yet the spitting image of the fast-living demon he knew, Aziraphale couldn’t find it in himself to regret it having come about this way, however utterly selfish that sounded, and he knew that it did.

He turned his head to look down at the wings he still hadn’t tucked back away after Gabriel had left, half-expecting to see…what, exactly? Tar travelling up his feathers? Motes of grey dotting the pristine whiteness? The white feathers moulting off in great lumps, to be replaced, instantly or later, with black feathers?

Any of those, really. All of them, perhaps. At least one of them, he would’ve expected to be there, given that…well, that when it came right down to it, his actions might’ve caused some good, but his intentions had been anything but pure. Had in fact been almost entirely selfish about this whole ordeal.

He wasn’t supposed to be selfish. Being an angel meant that he wasn’t supposed to love one single object or person more than the rest of the world.

Even if he could square that within his own mind – after all, he’d managed to square almost all the rest of what he’d done during his stay on earth, with himself, and finagled around the rest – he certainly shouldn’t put his own desires and wishes for that one person above the happiness of said person.

That wasn’t love, that was just…selfishness. Yes, that was the only word for it.

_Selfish_.

He, Aziraphale, had been given a corporation again, even after…and his beloved had been given the best shot at redemption that he could probably ever hope to have.

And then he had to go and potentially spoil it all by getting Crowley all mixed up with him again.

Yes, Gabriel was the instigator in this and was unquestionably to blame but so was Aziraphale. As much as if not more so, because he should’ve known. The moment he realised that it was Crowley – and they’d given him not only the name but the eyes, too, which was just cruel to keep when he was human, no matter how achingly beautiful they were – he should’ve left.

Should have spared him.

He should leave. Despite what he had thought, had promised, even if it had to an unconscious man beside him, just before, he ought to leave, for Crowley’s sake. Give the poor soul – hah! – a chance at happiness that wasn’t tarnished and tainted. A chance at a full life and a fulfilled one, too, in whatever shape that took, though the angel could wish for the former demon to have a child or two, he’d always seemed so fond of them.

A life lived to the fullest, as there was still more than enough life left for him to live, with Aziraphale nothing but a distant or forgotten memory as he worked to make sure, absolutely sure, that Crowley at the very least got his passage into Heaven once he died, without any quibble or any sort of caveat. That Gabriel would not be allowed to ruin or tarnish that in any way and that, hopefully, it would at least prove a better fit for him to be in Heaven as a human soul than as an angel.

Did they have something that he could…tinker with, for instance? Possibly ruin?

Yes, that was what he ought to do. What he was going to do, as well, because that was the right thing to do. The right thing, the only thing, and the absolute _least _he ought to do after the mess he’d made of things here.

Mess? It was a positive shambles, was what it was.

Right, then. Best get going while he was asleep, hadn’t he? Lessen the hurt.

For whom, though? Crowley or Aziraphale?

He slid his hands down his thighs, then back up, then slapped them lightly, in a decisive manner. At the same time, he blew out a breath and tried to keep his face calm and his tear ducts closed.

As he did so, he couldn’t help but hesitate.

Because he’d promised he wouldn’t leave, hadn’t he? He’d promised, more than once, even, at least partly because he had felt he had to promise.

Crowley had seemed so scared that he would, yet so adamant of its inevitability at the same time. As though there was no other possible outcome – and Aziraphale was fulfilling that suspicion right now, wasn’t he? By taking the first possible opportunity to leave, he was doing exactly what his…his friend seemed so very afraid of.

But why, though? It seemed relatively clear to Aziraphale, given the, admittedly somewhat mixed, reactions the ginger had had to not just the conversation between the two angels but what had happened during their ‘first’ meeting, that Crowley did not remember about his time being anything but human. Or at least, not clearly.

Oh, he didn’t know. He wished he did, but he didn’t. It was all such a jumbled mess that he wasn’t even sure had a beginning or an end. Perhaps the beginning was the end?

There was no denying, however it had come about, that Crowley was scared of losing Aziraphale again. Had in fact fought to keep him here with him. How could Aziraphale then in good conscience just up and leave like…like a burglar in the night?

However, it would be for his own best, in the long run if not in the short run.

Couldn’t he…no, of course he couldn’t see that. How should he be able to? Humans weren’t good at understanding and calculating such things at the best of times, especially not if the immediate result appeared to be a net loss for them.

But Aziraphale wasn’t human. Therefore, he was supposed to know better, to see things clearer than Crowley did. Be the voice of reason for both of them, really.

Right.

Why, then, was it as good as impossible to convince his legs to stand up? And it was, it truly was, even though it sounded like pure hyperbole. He couldn’t move them.

He glared down at them, knowing it for the foolish gesture that it was.

Crowley mumbled something as his head lolled even further on the back of the sofa. Not quite enough to land on Aziraphale’s shoulder but it was a close enough thing. As it did, Aziraphale’s heart did an odd little jump and a skip in his chest.

He looked back up at the other and made, after a moment’s hesitation, a decision.

There would be no running off into the night like the proverbial. Or even the day, as the case may be. But he would stay.

He would bring Crowley up to his own bed and he would stay with him until he woke. Perhaps he might indulge himself a little and sit right by him as he did so. Get to be close to him that one last time.

Then, when he woke, he would…

He would explain himself, as best he could, including why he needed to leave him, and leave him forever.

It wasn’t going to be easy, nor was it going to be at all painless, and if he was honest with himself, he did not want to do it in the slightest. But he knew that he had to.

He had to leave, and he had to explain himself. Forgetting himself for the moment, he owed both of those things to Crowley.

So, he managed to twist his body a little further around and put his arms gently underneath the bony knees and behind the equally bony back.

Good lord, he always had been skinny but Aziraphale had never suspected just how light he really was. Well, there had been that one time, but he didn’t think that could count as conclusive one way or the other…

Once he had his arms firmly secured, he lifted him ever so carefully as he stood up at the same time, making sure that he was more or less cradling him against his chest.

Crowley mumbled something again and snuggled into the surface his head was lying on, the rest of his body limp and pliable.

Vulnerable.

They were so very vulnerable, humans, weren’t they?

He might have to leave, but he was going to exceed the socially acceptable limit for miracles in a short amount of time before he did so.

Not to steer Crowley’s life or anything, he wasn’t that cruel. Just to make sure that…that some of the inherent vulnerability of humanity was steered away from his beloved for at least the foreseeable future.

He wasn’t going to meet his maker before Aziraphale had had a chance, or preferably several and good ones, to clear the path for him, as it were.

“It’s going to be alright, dear,” he muttered as he laid his cheek on top of the fiery hair, taking the opportunity to bask in the thick softness of it against his cheek. “I don’t know how yet, but we will make it alright.”

Crowley shifted a little at that and Aziraphale, in turn, shifted his arm up around his neck, securing it in a hook around it. It pressed the lanky body more firmly into him but if it meant that Crowley wouldn’t slide, then that was fine.

And it has no selfish motives?

Perhaps a little bit, he conceded. He was allowed that when he was about to give it all up, for good, wasn’t he?

Not really but go on.

Carefully, he then turned and made his way up to the rather spacious studio flat that Crowley, and it must’ve been Crowley, had made for himself. The cast iron spiral staircase going from the workshop part of the building to the upper story, underneath which was storage, that wasn’t him. Too big, a bit too ornate and far too little elegance for Crowley, that, and it fitted with the time period.

The flat itself, however, which must’ve been designed as the space for the bigwig of the company to preside, that reflected his demon much better.

“You always did like it streamlined, didn’t you, dear?” he said as he took in the spartan surroundings. When he’d put him to bed earlier, he hadn’t taken in much of it, on purpose, but now he did, he couldn’t help but note the similarities to the one time he’d been to visit his demon in the flat he’d owned.

There was something comforting to it, however, the knowledge that you could plunge him into a pool of boiling sulphur, you could put him through the ordeal of being born of a human woman; you could change him in a very fundamental manner and yet, he would always remain himself.

He would always be Crowley. Even if he did change his name every so often.

Aziraphale hoped fervently that that would always be the case.

Lowering the body down onto the bed gently, ignoring the mumbled protests as he did so, he hesitated, unsure.

Then he closed his eyes and swallowed, his Adam’s apple struggling its way down. Quickly, he reached out and grabbed hold of the duvet, pulling it up in one swift motion. He then tugged it carefully around the rest of the body, being careful not to linger anywhere overlong.

Only once that was done to his satisfaction did he dare sit himself down on the very edge of the bed though at an angle where he wouldn’t fall off, not touching anything, and snap his fingers, removing the clothes Crowley had gone out in.

Part of him wanted to see, considering that this would be his last-ever chance, what his dearest looked like without his clothes. Most of him, however, thankfully recognised it for the egregious breach of good manners and fundamental privacy that would be, not to mention trust.

It was not for him to see, now or at any point. Not unless Crowley, without coercing or any prompting whatsoever on Aziraphale’s part, decided of his own free will, which he now had, to show him and the likelihood of that was so miniscule that he would have to find a microscope.

As he was leaving him be, it was even smaller a likelihood. So small as to be invisible.

Therefore, it wasn’t going to happen. End of.

But he couldn’t have let him stay in those clothes, either. He’d slept in them twice at this point and goodness knew what else.

Had they been nice, the one that Crowley had…had made love to? Would he be calling them again? Should Aziraphale make sure that…no, he wasn’t to interfere, was he?

Was he glad of that? That it might mean that Crowley wouldn’t be seeing them again? And if he was, did that mean that he was…jealous?

As he looked down at the sleeping figure, relaxed and loose in a way that he’d never been in any of the circumstances that Aziraphale had seen him, he took the opportunity to assess whether he was. Truly, honestly jealous.

Yes, but mainly, perhaps just a little surprisingly, given what he’d thought about before, no.

No, he wasn’t. Truly. He would rather see Crowley happy, whoever that happiness might be achieved with, than being hung up on it having to be with him.

On that note, perhaps it was better for the poor man if he didn’t remember Aziraphale at all. This time he had remembered and look what that had brought with it. Nothing but confusion, conviction that he was going mad and pain.

Or…he evidently didn’t remember-remember – and where had he got that phrasing from? Regardless, he wouldn’t. Not truly. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have been confused like he was, would he? So, had there been an attempt at ridding him of the memories entirely, after all? It would seem like it.

One that must’ve failed because whatever he thought about his fellow angels, he didn’t think that God – and it must’ve been the Lord Herself, to have Gabriel not outright command against it, quite apart from the fact that only She could grant the demon that change – would be as cruel as to stick him somewhere between remembering and not remembering on purpose. Well, not without good reason, at least, even if it was ineffable.

That meant, however, that it’d do no good for Aziraphale to try and wipe his memory of him, not to mention it’d be rather blasphemous to try.

Without thinking much about what he was doing, Aziraphale waved his hand across the figure on the bed, and Crowley was suddenly dressed in pyjamas, silken black ones, with lapels and trims in bright red, because the angel knew he had a colour scheme, if nothing else. He didn’t go as far as adorning it with a snake, though; he didn’t quite feel like he dared to.

Speaking of snakes…

Was the tattoo there? He hadn’t thought to check before, it being one of those things he’d just assumed to be there, considering everything else that was there, and unfortunately, Crowley’s head had tilted to rest on its left side, hiding it from view if it was.

Why did it matter whether it was there?

Perhaps so he had something tangible that this was his Crowley, still? The hair was red, yes, red as anything, but while the eyes were still yellow, they lacked the slit pupil. It was him and yet…

Aziraphale leaned forward so that his face was right above that of the ginger. Crowley stayed asleep; his lips slightly parted as he breathed.

It would be so easy to just –

No!

No, he wouldn’t! Not on the lips, that was for certain. A kiss on the temple while he was asleep, that was one thing. That might be meant or interpreted as one of benediction, of reverence, of kindness and platonic love, as might a kiss on the cheek. One on the lips, however, that was entirely a different matter.

You know that in the more puritanical, roundhead circles during the English civil war, there were many who kissed on the mouth as a token of affection, familial and platonic.

Well, yes, but that was not the case now, was it?

You’ve done it before. He’s deeply asleep, he’s not to know.

That was not the point! Or it was but in the entirely opposite way. If Crowley were awake, as he was when the other kiss had happened, he was more likely to interpret a kiss on the lips as something non-platonic. Even if he wasn’t, that was still crossing boundaries and you couldn’t, or shouldn’t, do that without consent. Consent which couldn’t be given while asleep.

But a kiss on the temple or cheek is alright, is it?

Yes.

Well…it was better, at least. Somewhat.

He pulled back entirely at that, then scooted even further backwards until he was at the very foot of the bed, as far out of reach as he could be without leaving the bed entirely. Probably he ought to do just that, really, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it.

If nothing else, he felt he needed to be there when Crowley woke up this time. Right beside him, too, so that he wasn’t confused or panicked when he did. It had certainly looked like both of those things in his eyes the other two times.

It wouldn’t be fair to already be halfway out the door, as it were, when he intended to leave.

One last watch over his beloved and he would leave him be. Forever.

Leave him to be happy.

“One last vigil,” he murmured, smiling without humour. The very least he could do was ensure that it was as good a sleep as it possibly could be.

Therefore, Crowley slept on, calmer than he had for a very long time, soothed by the presence of the angel at the foot of his bed, in more ways than even Aziraphale knew.

His angel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I...ehm...well, yeah, that was a shift, wasn't it? In more ways than one. I feel like I ought to apologise... :S :/  
At least please be kind. We will get a resolution, I promise!


	12. Saying goodbye...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley wakes up to find the angel at the edge of his bed, ready to break some news he won't like much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who took the last chapter so nicely. Heads up, it's not quite all over yet, I'm afraid. Sorry - I did warn that there'd be angst, though.  
Title is a song title. :)

By the time Crowley finally woke, it was getting on towards dark. He wouldn’t have been able to say whether it was the evening of that same day or the next, should anyone ask him. It could be several days later, actually, for all that he knew.

Not that it mattered, at least in terms of how quickly he moved through the levels from the deepest levels of sleep all the way up to the upper echelons of wakefulness. Or perhaps more accurately, how slowly.

He woke with a feeling of contentedness, too, one that carried with him all the way up into fully awake. One of love, too, but he didn’t recognise that particular feeling for what it was.

Slowly, he blinked his eyes open and tried to focus. Not on anything in particular, just the world and reality around him.

Wasn’t he missing something? Or someone? Hadn’t he promised that he’d –

Before he could start to panic, however, he spotted, though rather blurrily, a very familiar figure at the edge of the bed, and the tension that had instantly gathered began to dissipate.

That said, there was something about Aziraphale and the way he sat that felt…not so much odd as just wrong somehow.

No, he was the one who was wrong. He had to be.

“Aziraphale?” he asked nevertheless, his voice mussy as he tried to claw himself all the way back to being awake faster. Oddly, despite the panic and now the worry, the sense of contentment didn’t abate.

“Right here, my dear. Don’t worry.” Was there something strange to that last sentence?

“Can see that…” Crowley muttered, yellow eyes blinking to bring the other into better focus. “Why you there, though?”

Bleh. He couldn’t form proper sentences yet, either, it seemed.

But though the contentment persisted, as did a feeling of lethargy that he couldn’t quite understand – he’d had better sleep this time than he had in weeks, after all – he couldn’t help the growing feeling that something was off.

That something was about to come crashing down.

_You sure that’s not just your normal paranoia speaking?_

Well, if anyone knew anything about that, it would be his inner voice, wouldn’t it?

Aziraphale’s face swam into focus wearing a small frown. “Because you asked me not to go, I believe. In fact, you seemed pretty adamant that I would.”

Again, there was something about the statement that…

No. He was imagining it. Surely.

Surely?

Crowley reached out and, hesitating ever so briefly, took hold of one plump hand which lay resting, curled, against a full thigh. He was allowed to, though the angel didn’t reciprocate the grasp. Crowley was only a little surprised at that, so his heart didn’t sink or wobble too much.

Not that it was in an entirely calm state as it was, of course, and it seemed to threaten to get much stormier.

“Why did you stay?” he asked, staring at the blond.

“I only just said, didn’t I?” the other replied, trying for a smile. It seemed plastered on and the glue wouldn’t stick.

But Crowley shook his head. “You wouldn’t stay just because I asked you to.”

He wasn’t anyone of any importance, certainly not anymore, and whatever Aziraphale owed him for carving him had more than been repaid by his protection from the wrath of an archangel, or Archangel. Whichever.

Aziraphale, it had to be said, looked both shocked and more than a little hurt at that.

“I…why would you say something like that?” he asked.

A part of Crowley noted, however, that aside from those two emotions, there seemed to be a soupcon of what he might think was guilt in there. The one when you’re about to be accused of something and you know the accuser is right and you’re not, so you try to avoid and deflect the attention.

Of course, that impression was helped by the fact that he’d attempted to deflect the statement, the slight accusation like that.

Because you have more important things to spend your time on and you already kept what you promised me.”

At Aziraphale’s slight look of confusion, he clarified, “I was scared you’d be gone when I woke, and you said you’d stay. You promised that you would, implying that it was only until after I’d woken up and then you’d leave.”

“Crowley…” The guilt was back, if it’d ever gone away, and it was clearer than before, too.

“Am I wrong? You’re sitting there, at the edge of the bed like you’re some real guardian angel or an actual night mare, waiting to pounce. You sit all straight-backed and trying to keep your face neutral. You won’t take my hand, even though you’ve done so before without a problem. You’ve tried to deflect my questions and comments.”

Aziraphale looked down and away. “Well, you see, that wasn’t – “

“And you look guilty. When you can look at me, that is.” That last one was hardly fair, Crowley knew, but for a brief moment, he wanted to hurt the other, even if only a little.

The moment he said it, though, he wanted to take it back.

It didn’t help that Aziraphale’s head whipped straight back up, the expression on his face telling him that he had achieved his goal.

“Aziraphale, I didn’t – “he began, slightly desperately, cursing himself for the grandest of fools. He wanted to grab tighter to the hand in his, wanted to reach out and grasp the other one, too.

What he did, however, was, while he talked, to pull the one hand he had out away, letting go of the hand he’d grabbed, knowing he’d overstepped the line and should back away. Hoping that he could be forgiven, not just for the last comment but the rest of them, too.

Oh, god, he’d even called him out on the hand holding, which really wasn’t on.

This was why he was surprised, to say the least, when his hand was grabbed as it started to retract and pulled back, the soft hand wrapping itself firmly around his.

“Aziraphale, please, I,” he tried again as he attempted to tug his hand free. He didn’t want the other to feel obligated to hold his hand.

_You don’t want pity._

Not that, neither, that was true, even though part of him knew that pity was likely what he deserved, all things considered.

The angel shook his head and Crowley’s heart did a complicated little jigging bounce as it didn’t know what it ought to do.

“You are right, dear,” Aziraphale said and his voice was not so much quiet as it was…was there a milder version of when you termed a voice ‘small’? If so, that was what it was.

Blue eyes dropped at that. Down to where their hands were held, it seemed, as he turned the bonier hand over and held it cupped in his, palm upwards.

It gave Crowley the impression that he was about to be given something and the feeling that this was all wrong and that he was genuinely about to lose the angel – in the sense that he was about to walk away, because he had never really been his to lose, otherwise, ignoring the fact of being his statue – only grew along with it.

He tried to steel himself for it, though to be perfectly honest, he wasn’t sure he knew how or that he could, when it came down to it.

“It was wrong of me to try and make…to deflect the questions like that,” Aziraphale began, still looking down at the hands.

Crowley tried not to think of it as the blond not wanting to face him. He certainly wasn’t going to say anything to that effect.

In fact, he tried not to say anything at all, to limit the risk that he was going to mess things up further. He certainly wasn’t going to fix anything by speaking, he knew that at this point.

Aziraphale paused after that, as though he didn’t know what to further say.

After a moment, he continued, “You are not wrong. I will have to break my promise, it seems, and sooner rather than later.”

He looked up at that and something of what he felt must’ve shown on Crowley’s face, despite his best efforts, because a look of pained apology crossed soft features, his eyebrows drawing together and down.

“I know that is not what I – “he tried but Crowley shook his head, looking to dispel that notion, but silently.

Then his mouth decided to speak, despite what he’d promised himself.

“It’s only the right thing, isn’t it?” he said. “That you should leave, I mean. There’s no reason for you to stay here, now, if there ever was.” The last part was mumbled but still made it past his lips, which was the real issue.

He wasn’t done, either. “And he said that you were…you were expected in Heaven.”

By God herself – and that was still trippy, to say the least. Not that She was…well, She, but that they were real at all. His mind kept circling back to that, perhaps as a sort of coping mechanism. He didn’t know whether that was true, but it would fit with how he’d attempted to cope earlier.

_Which went ever so well, too, didn’t it? And good job reminding him of something that he’s unquestionably already aware of and that’ll push him away earlier._

It wasn’t as though he’d meant to say it, was it? He couldn’t be blamed for something that had flown out of him without his conscious say-so, could he? Well, possibly he could, but…

And it was inevitable, wasn’t it? He shouldn’t have said it, didn’t need to outwardly project his insecurities, at least not that openly, but there was no denying the facts.

Even with all of that said, he felt an idiot for it.

He expected Aziraphale to agree. Waited for him to disentangle their hands and get up.

“Please…” he whispered, though he honestly didn’t know what he was asking for anymore. For the angel to not leave, promise him that he wouldn’t? Or for him to get it over with?

Whatever the case, he wasn’t going to look away, though. He might be a fool, but he had to learn to confront this sort of thing.

A lot of expressions flickered across Aziraphale’s features at that, too fast and too muddled for Crowley to catch them, much less make sense of them.

In the end, however, he didn’t feel that they mattered.

Because Aziraphale did get up at that. It was slow and it seemed reluctant, but nevertheless, he rose from his seat.

He didn’t let go of the bony hand, though, and Crowley savoured the touch, trying to imprint it in his mind somehow. It wasn’t something he’d ever managed before, but one time had to be the first, after all, didn’t it?

If there was one time it could work to have something imprinted in his mind, he hoped, he prayed that it would be this one.

He hoped She would be listening and would grant him this one request. To ask for more than that wasn’t something he could do, he understood that, but perhaps that, at least, would be okay.

In that same vein, as he stared up at the other, not knowing what to say or if there even was anything he could say, he dared to squeeze the hand in his.

Which squeezed in turn as Aziraphale stared back at him.

Then, after a long moment, he bent down, cupped the ginger’s cheek with his other hand and kissed him.

This wasn’t their first kiss, nor even the first that lingered. But it was their last.

Perhaps that was why it didn’t stay a closed-mouth, chaste kiss. What surprised Crowley most, though, was not so much that it became an open-mouthed kiss as it was the fact that it was Aziraphale who not only initiated the kiss in the first place, but asked permission to deepen it.

Permission that Crowley was more than happy to give.

In the back of his mind, something made a comment on whether it wasn’t wrong for an angel to do something as…well, sensual if not outright sexual as a French kiss. With a mere human, too, though he couldn’t really see how doing it with another angel was a whole lot better.

Not that he was about to complain about it.

He was going to get the most out of it now that the opportunity presented itself to him like this, especially considering the situation.

So, in that vein, he pushed his tongue in slowly and tenderly, exploring the other’s mouth, trying to experience and memorise as much of it as he possibly could. At the same time, he wanted to make it as good an experience as he possibly could, especially for Aziraphale.

Aziraphale, who seemed a rather enthusiastic participant, it had to be said. He certainly managed to match Crowley touch for touch and while it didn’t quite grow what one might call passionate, as the ginger didn’t dare to push it further than it had already been, it wasn’t lacking for that.

In there was hunger and desire, but there was also tenderness and care, comfortable familiarity and exhilarating discovery. There was affection and warmth.

There was sadness and there was longing.

Crowley might even say that there was deep apology in there, too, though he might be imagining that last bit. He almost certainly was.

That and Aziraphale was a surprisingly good kisser, and attentive, too.

All in all, it was almost everything that Crowley could’ve possibly wished for, if he’d thought about it consciously, and the reality that he would have to give it up, permanently, tore at him harshly.

That said, he would rather have gone without ever knowing what these soft lips felt like if it meant that he was allowed to stay by the angel’s side.

But as that wasn’t ever going to happen, it seemed, he would take what he was given and be grateful for it.

The yearning, the regret and the resentment could come later.

All too soon, in Crowley’s mind, the angel pulled away. He opened eyes he hadn’t realised he’d closed to see blue eyes look at him with that same warmth he’d felt in the kiss. The one he’d come to associate entirely with the angel.

The smile on soft lips were achingly sad and melancholic.

“Goodbye, my dearest,” Aziraphale said, his voice mirroring his smile, with an added vibrato to it that somehow made it even worse, or at least harder to listen to.

“Aziraphale…” Crowley whispered.

Everything inside of him, as well as his skin, felt as though it was burning, with the area on his cheek that was touch by the soft hand the only cool, soothing balm.

His breathing felt laboured and his chest constricted.

The angel shook his head slightly but clearly, the look intensifying as he slowly withdrew the hand and straightened back up.

Crowley wanted to yank the hand back, hold on and never let go. He wanted to do it with every fibre of his being, but his hands remained very firmly a, though admittedly trembling with the effort and other things, knot in his lap.

His eyes, however, wasn’t quite as easily kept under control and flickered back and forth over the other’s face and features.

Once Aziraphale was standing, he took a step backwards, then another. It was as slow as before and seemed as much of a struggle, which helped just the tiniest bit, at least to show his genuine reluctance, but he did do it.

Crowley, forcing himself to stay put, believed that he would turn around and walk out, as quickly as possible, without looking back. It was what he would’ve done, if the tables had been turned, simply because that would be the only way he’d

Instead, the blond stopped after a few stops and the ginger’s heart rose in his chest, despite everything.

Its mistake was brought home when Aziraphale spoke.

“I know it’s not my place, my dear, nor is it likely to be helpful,” he said. “But I do hope that you will have a good, full and happy life, in whatever shape that takes.”

He kept his eyes firmly on Crowley as he spoke. Then he paused, closed his eyes for just a moment as his wet his lips. Lips that trembled, enough so that the ginger could see it, as he spoke again.

“And I…I know this will be my last, my only chance to…”

He paused again, inhaled sharply and said, in a rush that Crowley nevertheless managed to hear clearly.

“I love you, my dearest Crowley. No matter what you are or what happens to you, or me, I love you and I should’ve, should’ve said when I…”

Breaking off, blue eyes brimming with unshed tears, he swallowed heavily once, twice, a small shudder running through him, then managed a smile.

Even though it ought to have been, it wasn’t wobbly, twitchy or wavering.

It was a beam of a smile, one of equal parts genuine joy, deep love and searing pain.

Crowley, stunned and struggling to keep his heart from bursting from the very same emotions he saw in that smile, wanted to say those very words back to him. To show that he felt the same; even though their interactions had been so brief, it didn’t feel that way at all.

But his throat had become beyond constricted, choked as though filled with vines, and he couldn’t get a single coherent word past his lips, however much he tried.

Yellow eyes looked up into blue, pleading with him to see what he couldn’t say in words. That the feelings were reciprocated.

Whether the angel saw, or understood, Crowley couldn’t tell for certain, though…but he hoped fervently.

“I am beyond euphoric, however, that I did get to see you one last time, let alone that it was you who gave me…life.” Aziraphale held his hands together over his chest, his heart. “Thank you, my dearest, for everything. Goodbye.”

With that, he did turn and walk away. The fact that he didn’t vanish or even run but walked with a careful, measured walk over to and down as much as the stairs as Crowley could see from his place on his bed ought to have made it almost comical. It did not feel comical in the slightest.

To watch him walk away like that, with enough time to see it, step by step, and force himself to remain still was not only difficult but tore further at a heart that was already in pain, already falling apart.

As though that wasn’t enough, he couldn’t help remembering the feelings that had been so clear, even if the images weren’t, of that very first dream where he’d seen Aziraphale. Remembering and experiencing them again, which was something of a tangled mess not easily separated.

But the feeling that he was losing him all over again not only enhanced that sensation he’d had of falling at the time and again now, it, along with that sensation, lent credence to the notion of having been…something other than human.

Even if he didn’t much want to believe it and couldn’t get it to make sense as to what he’d done to deserve any of it, the possibility that he’d been a demon once did make it far more plausible that he’d known Aziraphale, once upon a time.

What exactly had _happened _then?

No, no, no. He couldn’t think about that, couldn’t afford to. Not if he wanted to be able to cope going forward.

As he watched the dandelion-like fluff of the blond curls disappear from view and he had to fight tooth and nail with himself to keep from moving and from calling out to the angel, to halt him, _anything, _he realised something. Something which he didn’t much _want_ to realise, much less accept.

He…he would have to forget this. Forget as much of this as possible, if he could. To remember would be to lay himself open to pain and misery each and every time he did, or constantly, if he wasn’t able to forget in between. Which seemed rather likely, all things considered.

The thing was, he didn’t want to forget. Not in the slightest. He wanted to hang on to as much of this, as much of Aziraphale as he possibly could, pathetic though that undoubtedly sounded. Even if it hurt, now and later on, he didn’t want to give the memories up – again? – to be without that pain.

But if he was to have something even resembling a contented life, ignoring that which had gone before, to live up to Aziraphale’s wishes, then he would have to put it all thoroughly out of his mind, for good, and, more importantly, channel his feelings into something else.

That could be his work, a relationship – there had to be some way he could connect permanently with someone, in a romantic way, and even if he couldn’t, then at least a platonic one or a string of romantic ones that would fill it all up – perhaps even…

No. Children were the one thing that should never be used as a filler or substitute of any kind. Didn’t mean he wouldn’t have liked them, if things had worked out differently for him, but he wasn’t going to be selfish in that way. Not with kids.

However, he could fill the…the void somehow, without needing to bring children into it. He knew he could All he had to do was throw himself in there as hard and as wholeheartedly as he possibly could.

Right now, though…

Right now, all he wanted to do was curl up in a ball and cry until he felt like nothing but a hollow shell, his heart simultaneously shrivelling up into a dried husk and tearing into pieces that got lodged everywhere inside of him, ripping and burning wherever they landed.

No, that wasn’t true. What he wanted to do was get up and rush down the stairs, hoping against hope that he could still catch the angel before he left. He hadn’t heard the front door close, though that wasn’t any guarantee, but there was still a chance that…

And he wasn’t going to take it.

For the same reason he wasn’t going to try to cling onto the other but would try to make the most out of his life without the angel in it.

Aziraphale would want him to. Maybe it was with reluctance with regards to leaving, but he had left, and that was an end to it. He certainly wouldn’t want a mere human, whatever he’d been in another life, running after him, trying to get him to come back. To hold onto him for as long as possible, and maybe even plead for more.

Wouldn’t he? Hadn’t he said he loved him? Wouldn’t that imply that he – but that was immaterial, wasn’t it?

Aziraphale wasn’t another human. He wasn’t free. There were duties he had to fulfil as an angel, a Principality, and they came before…before everything, really, including his own feelings and desires. Crowley could never factor in.

Perhaps going over that waterfall into insanity wouldn’t have been such a bad call, after all. At least when you’re insane, things affect you differently, if at all.

Your heart certainly wouldn’t be breaking into a million piece over something which you’d known from the start couldn’t be, and never would be or could’ve been, yours and yet you had been and still were entirely unsuccessful at preventing or even curtailing it.

So, instead of following after the angel, he stayed where he was and though he didn’t curl up into a ball, the tears did start rolling, slowly but growing in speed and force until he was sobbing without a sound and with very little movement, everything more or less frozen.

Eventually, after a very, very long time had passed that he didn’t have any conscious track of, he rose from the bed, slowly. The tears had dried up some time ago, or rather, had run out, but that didn’t mean he’d stopped crying.

Now, however, he got up and went over his wardrobe to get dressed. Every movement was slow and somewhat lethargic. One might even say mechanical, and it had nothing to do with the amount of inactivity. But he got it done, eventually.

His stomach growled at him at some point while he got dressed but he ignored it. It really wasn’t important.

What was important was getting back to work. He needed to work, and he needed to do that both well and quickly if he was to…to make up for the time he had spent on…other pursuits.

Once dressed, he took the steps down the stairs two at a time and relatively fast, but there was no spring to his step as one would expect from someone who took the stairs like that.

He wasn’t going to lose his clients to, to this. They were what was important, after all, both economically and in terms of fulfilling his life on an artistic level. Working as a sculptor was his life, after all; it was what was important.

Yes, that was it.

His heart lurched in his chest at that, but he ignored that as well. To the best of his abilities, that was, as it was much harder to do.

It would pass.

He had to believe that it would pass. That he would get through it, somehow, even if it might take a very long time and be difficult all the way. He had to believe it.

Because if he didn’t believe it, then he…

He wouldn’t be able to fulfil the request from Aziraphale, which wasn’t going to happen.

The statue, the one he’d been commissioned for, stood where he had left it. Not surprising, really, as it wasn’t exactly the norm for incredibly heavy stone to go walkabout.

That would have just put the bleeding lid on it, wouldn’t it?

_Don’t blink, eh?_

Something like that, yeah.

He looked up at the statue for a moment, trying to assess what was left to be done rather than getting lost in his own thoughts, something which he wasn’t quite succeeding at. Then, when he thought he had an idea, he turned to get his tools.

As he did, he felt another tear run down his cheek.

That was fine. It was perfectly okay, because it had to be. He could work like this. Everything was fine or it would be.

It would pass. It was just an impossible dream that he had been allowed to be part of for a very short while. Now it was over, with nothing to show for it but his shattered heart, and he would move on with life, somehow. Because he had to.

Sooner or later, it would pass. It would all pass.

Life would pass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this isn't all that long a chapter after the wait and that it ends...well, where it does, but we're not quite done yet, I promise. This story is sort of taking me by surprise, though, and this was not a fun chapter to write. Extra drain, yay...


	13. What's best for him? Best for who?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale and Crowley are both trying to cope with their decision, made for the other's sake both, as best they can. Which...isn't easy, to say the least.  
Somebody doesn't quite agree with them and takes matters into their own...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for taking the last chapter so well as well <3 I know this has been a small wait but I'm trying hard to get it all out

Aziraphale closed the door to the workshop behind him ever so quietly, even though there was no reason for him to. Once it was closed, he had to convince himself to let go of the handle and move on. Had to prevent himself from staying right where he was or even turn around and open the door again.

But no. That would…only prolong the inevitable and be incredibly selfish in the process.

Crowley deserved a life and a good one at that. As good as it was possible for him to get, in the angel’s admittedly biased opinion. If he was to achieve that, or even hope to achieve it, then Aziraphale had to go.

That was all there was to it. He didn’t belong with this…this _version _of Crowley, he should say. There was maybe an argument to be made that he had never belonged with the Crowley that had been a demon, either, though not because they were hereditary enemies.

It wasn’t his place to be a burr on the sculptor – and wasn’t that an oddly fitting occupation for the ginger to have, considering his role as a co-creator, or at least co-builder, in his life as an angel – and his life that might slowly become an unintended leech.

Which he never, ever wanted to become. Especially not to his beloved Crowley.

He had managed to walk some of the way. The hardest part, where the other could still see him. Where he might still call out to him. Now he just had to continue that, without halting or otherwise pausing.

So, he forced himself to take a step away, and then another, building it up until he was moving at a slightly faster version of his normal walk. He even managed to not look back once, which he was proud of.

In that way he made it through the city, unbothered and for the most part unnoticed, even as his aura pulsed and pushed far more than it had ever done before, his frazzled and worried mind struggling to keep it in check, until he came to a very familiar place.

He only looked up, or rather looked outside what was going through his mind, when he was standing on the front doorstep, so long abandoned and yet so familiar.

His bookshop.

It was still here. After all this time and everything that had happened, it was still there, looking…

Like it always had, it seemed. Disturbingly so, almost. Even for a being who was more than used to changelessness, at least in terms of appearance and the Heavens themselves, the fact that it had been effectively abandoned for this long and yet had not changed in any significant way, if at all, that was somewhat unsettling.

There wasn’t even any paint or smashed windows or anything else that indicated humans had touched it or even tried to touch it. It was as though he’d left…yesterday, really. Had just popped out for a quick bite to eat and had now returned.

That didn’t mean he could get in, of course. It might very well have been taken over by some humans and that was why it was in such apparently pristine a condition. One might wonder why it then looked identical, at least from the outside looking in, to what he remembered. But perhaps they just liked the look and feel of the place.

Nevertheless, he placed his hand on the handle while the other almost automatically reached down into his pocket and sure enough, there it was. The key.

With trembling, almost numb fingers he pulled it out from his pocket, dropped it and only just managed to catch it before it hit the ground.

For a few moments he thought that it had indeed been bought by humans or at least wasn’t his anymore. Then his fingers finally managed to push the key into the keyhole properly and even turn it the right way on the first go.

It moved without a hitch at all and before he knew it, he stood inside the bookshop that he had been away from for so long. The one which seemed to have been frozen in time for him.

He sank to the floorboards, in the middle of the floor at that, staring up at everything surrounding him, scarcely believing that he was here.

How was it still here? Why was it still here, after all this time? Someone must’ve kept it frozen for him, on purpose. But who? Gabriel? Oh, yes, as though that would ever happen, when he eschewed any and all mortal trappings, including something like the bookshop.

It had been left alone for so long that there had to have been some intervention, and it couldn’t have been himself for obvious reasons, in order to keep it like this. So, who else could it have been?

He…wished he knew, and felt rather rotten to know, even more so than if he’d merely realised, that he wouldn’t think of any of his fellow angels as providing such a comfort to him.

That wasn’t what overwhelmed him, though. Not truly.

What affected him enough to send him sinking to the floor in a sitting position that resembled the strings of a doll being cut at once, was the memories.

Of his own life lived here but just as importantly, if not more so, the memories of Crowley. His beloved demon.

They crowded around his mind, more and more of them as they crystallised and multiplied, overlapping and intermingling and yet remaining perfectly clear. Almost everywhere he looked, there was something.

A noise escaped him, small and pained and full of longing. It went on and on, growing in volume and intensity slowly but surely until it filled the entire space of the bookshop, only the number of books, the amount of leather and paper managing to drink and deaden the sound to outside ears.

The memories weren’t merely plentiful, though that was hard enough, they were crystal clear and flooding back to him in almost a tsunami.

It should’ve been worse sitting or standing right next to Crowley, or what was Crowley now, but somehow, to be surrounded by memories and the tangible reminders of those memories was much harder than being around the person himself.

That had at least had an element of soothing to it, daft as that probably sounded. A chance to be close to the other in a physical as well emotional way, even if he didn’t go as far as he would’ve liked. He still had gone a lot further than he would’ve dreamed he would, if he’d been asked, and certainly further than he’d have dared when the other was still a demon.

This? This was nothing but stabs of various memories, visual, olfactory and audible, all coming together in a bed of recollection needles.

And yet…yet he couldn’t think to be without it. The thought of closing up, to turn around and walk right out of the shop again, to never return or even sell it off, that was quite…

It was abominable. It was unthinkable.

No matter how much it hurt, how many memories, good or painful or both, it held too much of his life for him to abandon it. Nor was he going to be run off like that. He would have to learn to live with it, after all, and if that required a lot of pain at the start to make it more bearable later, then so be it. He could deal with that. Hopefully. Like peeling off a sticky plaster all in one go.

There was something else to consider in that, too, he came to realise as he slowly got up from the floor, wincing just a little bit as his knees protested.

He had no idea how long or how far he had walked to get from the sculptor’s workshop to his own bookshop, but he could hazard a guess, from how long he had lived in London. He’d watched it grow and become itself, as it were, more or less literally. And even if he’d walked from one end of the city to the other, that still put them within relatively close distance.

Would that ever be enough? Could Crowley find him? If he remembered bits and pieces, it wasn’t unreasonable to assume that he would. Even if he didn’t, he’d had enough knowledge from wherever to portray Aziraphale with a book in his hand.

Crowley was a lot of things but stupid was not one of them. If nothing else, he could ask around for librarians, bookshop owners and similar who matched Aziraphale’s description. The clothes would undoubtedly be a clue worth pursuing.

That was an important enough question but there was another that was just as important, if not more so, would he be able to refrain from it? From going to see Crowley, that was.

He wouldn’t have to go searching himself, after all. Though he’d been in something of a daze when he’d walked here, to say the least, he still knew the city and felt more than confident he could find his way back there without any help.

Even if he did need it, Crowley’s work was evidently of a quality and desirability that had people commission him again and again, and so, all he needed to do was ask around. Quite apart from the fact that he knew his name, should he change jobs.

So, given how easy it would be to locate him, one way or the other, so long as he stayed within the city, how could he think to refrain? To not, in a moment of weakness, convince himself that he was only going over to that neighbourhood for a change in scenery, or to look at the work of some other artist in the area? He might even just end up over there during a stroll where he wasn’t paying attention and his feet took him there of their own volition.

Hah. Leaving him entirely innocent in the debacle, yes, that would be it, wouldn’t it?

But he needed to refrain from that. To not falter and if he did, to stop himself immediately. For Crowley’s sake.

He could do that. Yes. Definitely.

Could he? Just as he gave himself a small but decisive nod of determination, he questioned it.

He should have left the moment he had come to life, for lack of a better term. Had ceased being a statue, at any rate. He should most definitely not have stayed. Not to hear Crowley come back home from his night out – oh, what a state he’d been in, though the debauched look had rather suited him, he would have to admit – and certainly not when he came thundering down the stairs when he woke.

There was no reason to. None that he could even remotely justify, at least, not without swinging right into the crux of the matter; he had wanted to.

Selfishness.

There it was again. Naked and unadorned, small yet heavy and slightly flailing, like a baby. Staring at him like only a baby can manage.

Selfishness.

Yes. He was selfish, he could admit it. Only to himself, and whoever else might be listening, but he could say it. He was selfish. When it came to Crowley, he was incredibly selfish.

Impure. Un-angel-like.

And he couldn’t even bring himself to hate it, much less stop it.

To be perfectly honest, it was more or less all he could do not to embrace it wholeheartedly, to turn around and run. Run straight back the way he had come and wrap himself around the matchstick model that was the former demon and never let go.

It was only the thought that he would be ruining things, not for himself but for Crowley, both in this life and in the next that held him back. After everything, his dearest didn’t deserve to be weighed down by Aziraphale and the burden that was his care and love. Not again.

He deserved much better. Deserved everything, in fact.

So, Aziraphale would control himself. Simple as that.

Whatever it would take to achieve that control, he would do it.

Even if that might possibly mean that he would have to close down the shop and leave?

The blond paused in the act of getting up, slightly laboriously, from where he’d sunken to the floor, as the thought occurred.

Leave the area? Leave the city altogether? Perhaps the country, if that wasn’t enough – modern transport and technology really did make it far easier to get from one place to another quickly, didn’t it?

Looking around the shop with a deeply knitted brow, he thought about it.

As much as it hurt to be here – and much as he wouldn’t want it to, it did, the memories still crowding around his thoughts like a pack of dogs eager for sport – he did not want to leave.

This was still his beloved bookshop. The one he had spent centuries stocking with his most precious things and caring for and had, more or less inadvertently, turned into something of a refuge, a little cave of an Eden just for him.

Guilt stabbed at him at that thought. Though, to be fair and accurate, it was the stab of a hat needle rather than a claymore or even a rapier.

It was his shop, which had been kept immaculate for him in his absence, it seemed. To leave it after all that seemed…wrong.

On the other hand, it wasn’t as though he’d been here or that he hadn’t left it before, for extended periods of time, either.

All he needed to do, really, was close up shop for a little while. That or return to it intermittently over some years, or decades. Perhaps he should think of it as a grand tour of a sort, but one for books rather than…well, one purely for books instead of whatever caught the nobleman’s fancy and was expensive.

Yes, that was it.

Pushing himself to walk around, he tried to take stock of what might need to be looked at in greater detail if it was to be shelved for longer periods, though in reality, he was just reacquainting himself with the layout and contents of his shop. He knew it all by heart, of course, but there was still something to seeing it all again in the leather, as it were.

He might even assist with some excavations and other expeditions into lost scrolls and other books. That could be quite exciting, even. Something to keep his mind occupied and thriving as he gallivanted around the world, only occasionally coming back to deposit what he’d found and make sure that the rest of his collection was in order.

There certainly ought to be enough mysteries out there to keep him occupied until –

Until Crowley’s expected lifespan had run its course and he was gone.

A plump hand shot out to grope for purchase on the nearest shelf, nearly dislodging quite a rare tome of what purported to be witch cures but was in actual point of fact various ancient herbal remedies to reduce warts and heal bruises and suchlike. And jam recipes, too, for whatever reason.

Then again, Nostradamus had been quite the fiend for sourcing jam recipes, hadn’t he?

He shouldn’t be surprised, really, and he certainly had no reason to be shocked or uncomfortable. That was part of being human, after all. They were born, they lived and then they died.

Crowley being human meant that it would inevitably happen to him, as well, which Aziraphale well knew. It wasn’t as though he was unaware of the process or hadn’t thought about it in regard to the ginger previously.

However, having it brought home to him like that, that he could, well, basically wait it out until Crowley’s lifespan came to an end, and then proceed with his immortal life as…

He had to swallow and breathe very slowly through his nose at that, several times, to keep from screaming or something similar but stronger.

As it was, there was a tremble in his limbs, and he felt tears prickling at his eyes. He forced them back, though, hard, with some effort.

There was nothing to be done about it. This was for the best, for Crowley’s best, and while he might not take quite as drastic a measure as going away, he would have to think of countermeasures to, well, to himself, and whatever excuses and other good ideas he might come up with.

Right now, though…

Right now, he had plenty to occupy him. Such as going through his inventory. It may seem as though everything was there and in order, but it was best to make sure. Then there was the backlog to check in the same, thorough way – not to mention that everything needed a good dusting after all this time, of course.

Then when he was finished, he would need to see what books he had yet to acquire and set up ways to do so.

Oh, and the meeting upstairs. He did need to attend that. It seemed highly unlikely that She would be expecting to talk with him, to say the least, but he couldn’t ignore Heaven forever.

No, he needed to schedule that. Soon.

All in all, plenty to do.

To keep him busy.

Plenty.

* * *

Crowley sat slumped on the floor, up against the beginnings of another statue, a finished one nearby, his head lolled slightly against the unworked stone, the fire of his hair a stark, vibrant contrast to the white of the marble.

He’d been quite prolific in the last few weeks, working to catch up on all that he had slide and fall to the wayside in the previous weeks. Calling clients, going to a few face-to-face meetings, enduring being chewed out and making a lot of apologies, working all-nighters and taking breaks from one type of work by doing another type of work.

The amount of coffee consumed ran to the gallons to keep him afloat, and did his eyeballs ever float in coffee by the end, and at some point, he found that he’d bought a packet of long cigarettes, a habit he’d taken up in his teens and quit in his twenties, for much the same reason. Rather, he found the butts of them.

But he was doing well. He really was.

To his surprise, most of his clients had been rather understanding. Some had even been surprised that he was apologising at all, citing deadlines that were much later than the ones he had written down in his books.

One mentioned they were just happy to know that he was alive and that he really should call in more often. It wasn’t good for him to be on his own for such extended periods of time like this, as clearly evidenced.

He’d smiled, just a little bit strained, at that and had changed the subject. And he’d changed it again when it had been attempted to veer it towards him coming with the client in question to some art galleries and other such venues.

They meant well, he knew that, but that didn’t mean that he had any interest in coming out to such events.

His inner voice had argued that he couldn’t stay holed up in the workshop indefinitely, only leaving when he had to. At least, not if he was to…make the most of things.

Still feeling more than a little fed up with it, he strongly argued that he could. That there was no reason and therefore, no point to being sociable just because. His work was his life, not shallow or meaningless social interactions such as that, and he could find quite sufficient fulfilment in that work to not need it.

Any other argument, he simply refused to hear.

But no matter how much he wanted to push and be the one in control, or even considering the fact that he had managed to wrestle that control back, there was a limit to how much a body could physically do. He had been pushing it very hard in the last few weeks, and that wasn’t considering –

The point was, there was a limit and he had very firmly and deliberately ignored it.

It had worked, too, but now his body had had enough and had taken matters into its own hands. A bit too late, it might be argued, with the thinness of it that now verged on bony, certainly ragged, the pallor of his skin and the dullness to his eyes. A dullness that had spread to his hair, too.

Living on coffee, cigarettes and work was not a diet that would show up in…most magazines. Not these days.

It was fine, though. Anything that kept him preoccupied, that was to say busy in both mind and body, was a good thing. It meant more money, which meant more stability and opportunities, more things should he want them, and it meant more work.

Which all came together to mean happiness.

Right? Of course.

It was dark in the workshop, too, as he’d fallen asleep, that was, collapsed, before it had been necessary to turn the lights on. Which he had only been paying attention to because otherwise, it was impossible for him to work.

Even so, it seemed that there was a light on somewhere. A light that hadn’t been on before and didn’t look quite right for the light of a workshop, either. It had too much of an orangey red component for that.

Almost fiery, you might say.

It wasn’t close by him but despite that, it managed to get into his eyes as it slowly grew, burning at his eyelids and causing him to clench them tighter to combat it.

Not that it did any good, really. If anything, it just got brighter, as it seemed to get nearer, and despite how knackered he really was, how ragged he’d run himself, there was a part of him that was still capable of recognising danger signals and was always alert.

It shoved at him, hard, and told him to wake up because otherwise, he was going to spend the last minutes of his life either burning to death or dying from smoke inhalation.

He woke with a start and though he wasn’t exactly on a running start, he did register the by then very bright and encompassing, fiery light.

But if it was the light of fire, genuine flames, then wasn’t something missing? Oughtn’t there be some heat, too, and some smoke?

Nevertheless, he scrambled upright as best he could, trying to think of where he had something to put it out with. Then he remembered that he could use the stone dust lying all around him.

Quickly he gathered a handful of dust, and then his brain kicked in.

Where exactly was the fire – how it had started, he couldn’t really ask in good conscience, when he’d been smoking and not taking as much care as he ought to – and again, why wasn’t there any smoke or any heat, if it was big enough for this much light to see and of that colour? No crackling, either, though that was somewhat trickier to rely on.

Focusing on it, he grew only more confused.

It seemed to come from a distance and at the same time only a few feet away, and in neither place was anything that could conceivably burn. Definitely not with as strong and consistent a flame as that.

And it still did not give off any heat, either.

Still trying to pull himself together and awake enough to deal with this, something struck him as familiar.

Burning…burning…bush? Was there something about a burning bush?

Was…but that didn’t…well, he couldn’t claim that it didn’t happen, could he? That it was impossible. Not when he’d been faced with at the very least one very tangible angel. Two, if he believed that the berk that had commissioned him truly was the archangel, with or without the capital letter, Gabriel, and he did believe that, too. That was mainly, if not exclusively, because of Aziraphale’s behaviour towards the arse.

No. No, no, no, _no! _

He wasn’t going to – he had promised himself that he wasn’t going to think about this anymore! Any of it! He had sworn it, that it was a chapter of his life that was short, weird and heart breaking, which was why it would be wiped from his memory.

It had seemed impossible at the time, but he had promised himself that he would.

He’d thought he’d done a pretty good job of it, too, all things considered. Might even have convinced himself that he didn’t recall that he wasn’t supposed to remember something and certainly not what that something was.

The ease with which it flowed back into his mind, after all the hard work he’d put in – and it had been hard, to force himself to push each and every thought, every sight, every smell, every scrap of memory, out of his mind again and again, burying it in work upon work, until he thought he’d snuffed it out completely – spoke of a different reality and consequently, that he had been deluding himself more than anything.

Which meant that he had no clue as to how he should go about truly purging the experience from his mind.

Because he had to. Somehow, he _had _to, if for nothing else, then for his sanity.

Every time he thought of Aziraphale, his heart ached hard enough that he was convinced it was going to shatter and it took everything that he had not to pursue the angel, one way or the other.

And why exactly is that?

The thought came out of the blue. That wasn’t what puzzled him, though. What puzzled him was the fact that it had sounded like something his inner voice would say but it didn’t sound like it. Nor did it sound like another voice.

In fact, it sounded like himself. Except he wouldn’t entertain that thought. He would very firmly steer away from that thought and any like it.

He looked at the flame, which seemed to have grown larger and brighter.

Angrier?

But that didn’t – that couldn’t be what he thought it was.

What would She want with him? He was just a human, even if he had been a demon at some point. That should give Her even less incentive to talk to him, shouldn’t it? Leaving that aside, he was a normal, boring human being who was good at producing sculptors.

These days, when people thought She’d talked to them, it was usually an excuse to get naked and run crazy. There was a certain lack of bushes involved, at the very least.

It couldn’t –

Why not?

He couldn’t help it; he stared. His eyes were wide enough to feel like they were going to topple out of his face any moment.

Could he be blamed, though?

Tentatively, he thought to ask a question back.

Would – does that mean that I can – that it’s okay for me to want more? That I can go to him? Ask him to…be with me?

He didn’t get an immediate answer and for a moment, his heart sank in his chest, even further than it already had.

Then the fire flared and grew hot. It didn’t last long but it was strong enough and hot enough that he had to shield his eyes with his arms, the hair on his arms – he’d had his sleeves rolled up for working – singing off.

As it settled back down to where it had been before, he swallowed.

Well, then…

That was…he couldn’t say that was unequivocal, because part of him was convinced that he was going to wake up, still slumped against the statue, and that none of it had happened.

It flared just a little again, as though displeased with his thinking, and his heart beat a little faster in the knowledge that it could not just kill him but wipe him entirely from existence.

Well, it wasn’t as though it was unprecedented, strictly speaking, to have conversations with the Almighty be in dreams, was it?

The fire sank back down, for a long moment looking as though it was going to stay that way. But then it started to fade entirely, and quickly, too, leaving absolutely no trace that it had been there in the first place.

Which left Crowley standing, staring at where it had been, still with the handful of marble dust in his hands, though it was slowly trickling away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope, seriously hope this doesn't feel like a cop-out for anyone. It seemed quite appropriate in the circumstances. We are getting towards the end, though, I promise.


	14. Finding and Meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley decides to try and find Aziraphale, despite second-guessing himself and other things besides. When he does find him, though, is he ready to see him? To have the angel see him? Does Airaphale even want to see him?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two and a half weeks isn't bad, is it? It's not the longest but at least it's here. Thank you again to all who have been patient and sweet and wonderful.

He stayed like that for what felt like forever, frozen in trying to comprehend what had just happened, and quite spectacularly failing in wrapping his brain properly around it.

Then again, to be fair to him, it was probably something anyone would struggle with, even given what he’d gone through.

His first go-to was to blank that it had happened. Shove it as far away from his conscious mind as it was possible to get it. Bury it in the deepest pits never for it to resurface.

And just how well had that worked last time?

His eyes, which had closed at some point, snapped open again, convinced that the fire was back.

There was nothing there, though. Nothing at all and yet…

Moreover, much as he didn’t want to admit it, it had rather a point, didn’t it? It hadn’t worked, to say the least, and – and perhaps that was for the best, really.

_What, really? Just like that, you’re going to give in and abandon all the work you’ve put into getting through this? Getting over it?_

It wasn’t exactly time well spent, though, was it? No matter what he’d told himself, he felt drained to the very marrow in a way that he couldn’t ever remember feeling before, and it wasn’t solely because of the strain of working so hard. In fact, he’d probably worked as hard if not harder when there’d been a deadline to reach before. He had taken better care of himself then, that was the difference.

The point was, for all of that, he’d just proven how bad at suppressing such things he actually was, and he’d pushed his body...

He paused to try and access the state his body was in, quite apart from what he could feel, and what he found unfortunately only reinforced what he had already surmised from what he’d felt.

_You’ve been doing it for Aziraphale’s sake, though, haven’t you? Trying to get over it. To forget him and let him fulfil his duties and have a life, without having a ginger albatross around his neck. Is that worth nothing?_

No, of course it wasn’t. It was worth everything. He would never want to do something that would hurt, upset or otherwise pain his angel, which was why he had removed himself from the equation in the first place, wasn’t it?

At the same time, though, that he had been granted permission, though perhaps not in so many words, to pursue it, had to count for something. For a lot, given who it was that had given that permission.

_But just because She has given her…blessing, if you can call it that, that doesn’t mean that **he **wants to see you, as well. What he might’ve been so caring about, so tender and, well, loving towards and so reluctant to part with, that didn’t have to be you. Why would it be you?_

Well…why not? That was definitely the case the other way around so why not that, too?

_Because if nothing else, you have nothing concrete to compare him to, no way of knowing whether he is as he was. You fell in love with perhaps a memory or else a fantasy that has then become a living, breathing being. He fell in love with, well, basically, someone else._

No, that wasn’t – that wasn’t true at all.

_Regardless of how he knew you, demon or not, you’re so much less or at least not the same as the person he knew. You can’t be, for so many reasons. Which means that what he sees, what he likes about you, that isn’t you, or at least, is only you because you share it with your previous self._

The inner voice paused but he knew it well enough by now to know that it wasn’t done.

_It’s never been you and it never will be you, either. Not truly **you**._

Crowley closed his eyes hard, what dust remained in his hands squeezed together and trickled out as the hands were tightened into fists. Sometimes, he truly hated his mind with a passion.

Then why – why would She show up like that and not only that, but give confirmation to his question of whether he could…? Well, as far as he could interpret, anyway. Why do that if it was certain that Aziraphale –

Who said that it had to be a _kind _gesture?

No. He wasn’t religious, despite everything that had occurred recently, but he couldn’t believe that She would…that would be far too cruel.

A tiny little nugget of something, something which he didn’t ordinarily hear from, but which felt ancient in a way he wasn’t used to yet very central and integral to him as a person, commented that ineffability could be apparently cruel with impunity, because you didn’t see the whole picture. You never could.

Well – what ought he do, then?

Opening his eyes and unclenching his hands, he made his way, unsteadily, over to his desk, where he sank into his chair rather heavily. He stared at his hands, covered in dust, not really seeing them.

What should he do?

He knew what he _wanted _to do. That didn’t even need thinking about. What he wanted to and what he should do were two entirely different things, however, and he needed to keep them separate in his mind.

But…

He knew all the arguments for not going. For keeping his distance and not darkening Aziraphale’s door – and where did an angel even live? – with his hook-nosed mug. It wasn’t as though he hadn’t been over them enough times, after all.

It didn’t help much.

That he knew it would be selfish to try and find the angel, if that was even possible, didn’t help much either.

His forehead was resting on his palms now as he stared down at the desk surface.

He thought he might’ve seen the hint of a flame out of the corner of his eye, but he didn’t lift his gaze.

What to do? What to _do_?

Of course, there was no guarantee that he could even find Aziraphale. He had given no indication that he lived anywhere in particular, and if he had indeed been in some sort of limbo for a time, the chance was even slimmer.

The completely irrational thought of Aziraphale booking into a hotel somewhere in London would probably, at some other time, have amused him, but he couldn’t quite muster the energy for it.

He sat there for some time, just staring, the thoughts going around in his head like a fairground ride set on far too high a speed.

Then he stood up in one sudden move. Checking that he had his phone and his wallet, he grabbed his jacket from where he’d thrown it bugger knew how long ago and made it out of the workshop front door quickly. As he went, he only barely remembered to grab his keys and lock the door.

He was going to find Aziraphale. What he was going to do or even say once he did find him, he had no idea, and this could just as well blow right up on his face – in fact, it was almost certain to do so, one way or the other – but he was going to.

_Even though you promised yourself, and him, that you wouldn’t? That you would leave him alone? What happened to that?_

You’re not helpful, you’re not adding anything new, and you’re not going to dissuade me. Let me screw this up entirely on my own, okay?

_It’s not as though you’re not perfectly capable of that, I have to admit._

And he wasn’t going to get rid of it, he knew. It was himself he was arguing with, after all, however much he had managed to turn it into something of a mentally separate part of him.

Which in turn was probably a fairly good indicator that he had gone around the bend, long before he started worrying about doing so.

But then he would have to admit, he was doing fairly admirably for a man who’s gone crazy.

He paused at the end of the deserted street where his workshop was, taking in his surroundings and where he ought to go. Not to mention trying to get his thoughts into some semblance of order.

Where would he go?

If Aziraphale had indeed not gone straight back up to Heaven, and things would suggest that he hadn’t, then where would he be?

Somewhere with books. Obviously. Books had seemed entirely right for him. Otherwise, he’d hardly have sculpted him with a book in his hands, of all things.

A library? No, that wouldn’t be right. He couldn’t pinpoint exactly why that was but trying to cross the two images resulting in his mind returning an error message. Metaphorically speaking, of course.

Where else could it be, then? A bookshop, he supposed, as there weren’t that many other options.

That somehow – that was it. That was why he was so sure it was books; Aziraphale didn’t only have a book in his hand, when he came alive, for lack of a better term, he smelled of books.

Not overpowering or even strongly in any sense, but there was more than a hint of books to his general scent, which was surprisingly mild and pleasant overall, in a way that suggested he was surrounded by them and had been on a long enough basis to acquire that scent.

Which in itself could suggest library, too, he supposed, but in a bookshop, unless it was an antiques shop, there would be less of a leather-component than in a library.

He would be in London, though, Crowley had no doubt about that whatsoever. That wasn’t a great way to narrow it down, he would have to admit, but it was better than nothing, and nothing was what he had.

_What about your commissions? All your clients waiting – are you just going to abandon them whenever it’s inconvenient for you?_

It wasn’t going to take long.

_Oh, no, because London is such a small little town that you can walk across within an hour or two, if you dawdle. Can’t be many bookshops in London, especially not with the downturn of paper media, eh?_

Sarcasm wasn’t helpful right now, and yes, he knew there _would _be quite a few bookshops, still, given that it was _London_. But he’d make a guess that whether it was an old shop, still going or reopened, or even one newly opened, the presence of a person such as Aziraphale, regardless of whether he was a man or an angel, would attract attention. Would in fact probably be more than sufficient to track him down.

It would certainly be worth a try.

_Whatever it takes, eh?_

Pretty much, yes.

Whatever happened afterwards, he would deal with it. But he could at the very least be allowed to _ask, _couldn’t he?

He set off towards the nearest old bookshop he knew of, to ask for guidance.

* * *

There it was. The bookshop. _The _bookshop, you might say. The one with ‘A.Z. Fell and Co.’ written over the front door.

Part of Crowley felt exasperation, because really? A.Z. Fell? Where did he get his naming ideas? Comic books?

That wasn’t the main thing, though. Not even important, arguably, but it was a cute little thing and informed him a bit more of what kind of person Aziraphale was.

Crowley crossed the street, trying to work out by looking into the windows as he went just how many customers would be in there.

Not that he would only go in if there weren’t any other customers – he hadn’t been searching this long and finally managed to find it only to turn away at such a small hurdle – but it would give him an idea of how easily he could slip in and how many he would need to wait to leave first.

As he got to the front door, having assessed that it at least wasn’t stuffed with people but also that he couldn’t see Aziraphale, he hesitated, hand on the handle, heart in his throat.

Did he have the right to go barging in? To disturb Aziraphale without as much as a by-your-leave?

_Shouldn’t you have thought about that before you went through all this stuff? Just maybe?_

That it had a point didn’t make him feel a whole lot better about it.

But seeing as it had a point, he breathed out slowly and tried to push his heart back into at least his torso. Then he turned the handle and stepped in.

The doorbell jingled merrily in a way that almost made him glare at it for completely failing to take into consideration the seriousness, the gravity of the situation. Which was an unfair burden to put on a metal stick and cup, really.

Nobody came to greet him right away nor did it look as though anyone really took notice of him. Which was good, in the sense that if he hadn’t been spotted by the blond, he could have some time to get his bearings and prepare himself for what was to come.

At the same time, it felt bad in a way, because if Aziraphale had registered his entrance and had kept on working as though Crowley hadn’t come in, then…well, someone had got the wrong impression somewhere.

Could…get the wrong impression? Was that even possible?

The sculptor’s heart sank in his chest at the thought, but at the same time, he couldn’t deny that part of him had been prepared for such an outcome.

Didn’t mean it didn’t hurt, of course.

But he would persevere, if nothing else then to actually be able to put this all behind him once and for all.

He ignored the thought that this was rather déjà vu in its own way.

Moving further in, he tried to see if he could spot the angel without being too obvious about it. He also moved towards the bookshelves to make himself look like an actual customer and gain himself a bit more time.

At first, it looked as though he’d got the wrong shop after all, but then he saw him, walking among the shelves and – was he taking books from customers and putting them back on the shelf? Surely not?

No, actually, that…that felt rather right, somehow. He couldn’t say why exactly, but that Aziraphale would somehow prevent people from buying the books while maintaining a façade of pleasant helpfulness felt entirely in-character, as it were.

In an odd way, that was actually something of a relief to know. That Aziraphale could be, perhaps not outright a bastard but not a hundred percent fair and just and _right_ all the time, but have his moments of unfairness and…selfishness?

Not be entirely angelic, as it were.

That was somehow easier to deal with, that small sense that he had something ‘faulty’ about him like that. Something human.

As the angel drew nearer, Crowley felt an urge to duck out of sight. To hide until every customer was gone. Perhaps longer than that.

_Oh, yes, because staying in his shop after closing and just observing him isn’t creepy at all, no. Not in the slightest. Stalkers-R-Us, anyone?_

He wanted to argue, but there wasn’t really any point he could make that could counter it well enough.

On the other hand, being passed over when he didn’t see him would also hurt, quite tremendously so, and to confront the other right now, while there were others to witness it, that didn’t feel right, either.

Or rather, that last option felt exposed, and as he wasn’t exactly brimming with confidence as it was, he could do without it.

The end result was that he did move but only so that he would be facing the other rather than waiting for him to creep up on him.

So that he could greet him and see what he would do – and not getting absorbed in only taking him in, which was a real danger.

However, he did note, even in his joy at seeing him again, that there was something…not exactly haggard but worn and tired about him. A certain light and glow to him that was missing or at the very least had dimmed quite significantly.

Why was that? What had happened? Had Heaven said or done something?

It seemed implausible, given all they’d done to get him back, not to mention his own experience with the burning whatever-it-had-been. On the other hand, Gabriel would seem the type to be a petty bastard, and Crowley could easily imagine him bullying and otherwise harassing Aziraphale to just within the permitted boundaries, so that he wouldn’t technically have done anything wrong but the effect would be quite substantial nevertheless.

The ginger felt his hackles rise just at the thought and had to work to push them down. Now was not the time for that – nor did he actually know whether that was truly what the cause was, did he?

Best not to speculate.

Right. Good luck not doing that and the same for not worrying about it, either.

He just about managed to be mentally present when Aziraphale was near enough that he couldn’t help but spot Crowley.

His eyes swept over him and past but before the sculptor’s heart could even start to sink, they stopped and swung right back, going wide in the process.

Crowley held his breath.

Aziraphale’s mouth opened, then shut. Then it opened again, only to get no further than a choked-off sound before clicking shut once more. Meanwhile, his eyes darted all over the ginger’s figure, as though hardly able to believe what he was seeing.

That could be either good or bad and not knowing either way kept Crowley’s breath bated.

The blond stood stock still for another long moment. He then turned, with a swiftness that did nothing good for Crowley’s thoughts or feelings.

“We are now closed, ladies and gentlemen,” Aziraphale called, clapping his hands lightly at his did so. “Please do leave at once.”

It shouldn’t have been enough to get the attention of everyone in that relatively big space. Especially not seeing as a room full of paper tends to if not outright guzzle sound, then drink it slowly but consistently. And yet, people almost immediately seemed to not only have heard what he said but complied as well. Well, for the most part.

“Please do leave behind any books you might’ve wished to purchase. You can come back tomorrow if need be.”

Aziraphale moved over to assist one customer, getting them to put down the books they were holding, despite their rather obvious reluctance to do so, and move towards the exit.

Surprisingly quickly, the shop was empty, the last few stragglers casting curious, and for one almost accusatory, looks towards Crowley, who stayed very decidedly where he was, leaning slightly against the bookshelf he was next to. He made no comment to their silent question, nor did Aziraphale as he ushered them out.

His heart was beating quite irregularly but fast in his chest by the time the last customer finally got more or less pushed out the shop, the door being closed right behind them. It was locked, too, presumably to stop anyone who got a bright idea.

However, it also locked Crowley in here with the angel and while that was a good thing, it also felt just a little bit ominous, somehow.

_How would he possibly hurt you, though? He’s an angel._

Angels could smite, though, couldn’t they?

An image flashed through his mind at that, entirely unbidden; a sword held by familiar, plump hands with an air of someone who knew what they were doing, and the blade was aflame.

He wasn’t going to question the validity of the image. Not at this stage. It did send a shiver down his spine, though.

Aziraphale turned around to face Crowley as he pocketed the key.

For a moment, he just stared, and the ginger had to struggle a little not to fidget under that gaze.

Somehow, he wasn’t quite sure how, he managed not only not to fidget, but remain rather calm as he met the blue eyes, their expression undecipherable.

“Hello, Aziraphale,” he said then stopped. What else could he say? Suddenly, he had no idea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aren't I sweet? :) Well, you ought to know by now.  
I don't think we're far from the end, really, guys. I know I've said something like it before and I hesitate to say that it'd be the last next time, because I always end up miscalculating, but...


	15. Why have you come?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just because you meet again after a separation doesn't mean every issue that was before has magically gone, and there might be new things.  
That doesn't mean you shouldn't *try*, of course.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Three weeks, right? Not too bad, considering...everything that I've been through lately. Anyway...  
Your feedback and understanding mean such a lot and keep me writing.

“Crowley.” For a moment, it looked as though Aziraphale didn’t know what to say, either. That or he was trying hard not to say or do something unforgiveable. It wasn’t easy to tell.

“I, ehm, that is – “

“What are you doing here?”

If he’d expected the question to sound like anything – in his hoped-for scenario, the question wouldn’t have come up at all but, well… – it would’ve been accusatory or at least demanding. Perhaps a bit exasperated, maybe even possibly a bit understanding but with an aloof, detached edge to it.

As though once they had gone their separate ways, he had put the whole experience, and Crowley himself, out of his mind and was not particularly interested in having that dragged up again.

That he was being rather pessimistic about the whole thing was something that he didn’t see at the time. He had tried to remain positive while trying to find the other but in the back of his mind, the pessimism had lurked. The sudden nervousness from the door being locked had pushed it out into the open.

It didn’t end up being any of them. Instead, it sounded a little tired and a little wary, but more prominently, it sounded – concerned? Could that be right? Why would he be concerned?

No. Don’t speculate. There wasn’t time to speculate. Not now.

_Later, when you’re drowning your sorrow in work and that large bottle of blended you’ve got stashed away?_

Exactly, yes. And for the record, it was a single malt that he had stashed, not a blended. Not that it mattered, really, especially not when he was completely sloshed, but…

“I – “He began then hesitated, scared to go through with it. He then took a deep breath, closing his hand into a fist.

No, if he was going to do this, then he was going to do this head-on. Even if it went badly. Even when it went badly. He was going to do this, come Hell or high water.

Either of which was suspiciously likely in the circumstances. Given that fact, he would hope, if he thought about it, that it’d be the high water.

_Being tied to Hell once was more than enough, thank-you-very-bloody-much! Ain’t going through that ever again if I can help it._

Where had that come from?

“I wanted to – no, I _needed _to see you,” he managed to get out.

The concern that had been present in the voice crept into the expression as well.

“Oh, good Lord – what’s happened? Are you alright?” Aziraphale asked, his wariness melting a little as he moved forward with a few quick strides. It was still a little distance from Crowley, but it was considerably closer than before, and he would take what he could get.

“I... I don’t know,” he said, blinking behind his sunglasses. It wasn’t what he had planned to say, if he had planned for anything, but he could feel the truth of it the moment he said it.

The angel took another few steps and was close enough to grab Crowley’s hands in his. The ginger tried not to let himself be distracted by that.

It wasn’t easy.

Part of him also felt some anger at the other for the apparently casualness of the touch. As though this was normal and that nothing had happened, nothing was amiss.

“What’s happened?”

The concern was now unmissable.

“I – there was something burning in the workshop.” No, no, no. that wasn’t what he’d meant to say. He hadn’t meant to divulge that at all nor had he got the impression that he was allowed to reveal that.

“Then you should call the fire department,” Aziraphale said and though he didn’t let go, his grip slackened.

“No, it’s gone – but there was nothing burning!” And that made ever so much sense, didn’t it? “I mean, there was a fire burning, flames and all, but there wasn’t any heat from them, and it wasn’t burning anything.”

Was that better? It didn’t feel like it.

But Aziraphale’s small expression of understanding, his mouth opened in a little ‘o’ and his eyebrows slowly rising told a different story.

“You mean that – are you sure?”

“No, I just felt like saying something nonsensical,” Crowley returned and if his voice were a bit of a snap, could he be blamed? It wasn’t the sort of thing you went around lying about, was it? Not if you were sober, anyway. “Of course, I’m sure. I wouldn’t say it if I weren’t, would I?”

Not to mention come all the way here, having to work out where Aziraphale could be and everything, even if it was linked to something else.

Thankfully, Aziraphale didn’t seem to believe that he was lying, which was a relief.

“No, of course. My apologies. I suppose I just wasn’t prepared – what did She say?”

“Say? It didn’t – you mean, it really was –?” Knowing it, or at least strongly believing it, in yourself was one thing. Having it confirmed by an actual, real-life angel was another one entirely.

“You said it lacked any heat and that it also failed to have a source of burning. Did it consume anything else or spread?”

“No, it – it just stayed where it was, like it had a steady supply of fuel in nothing. It wasn’t a cold flame, either.”

“No, they’re not normally visible and – “

“Even when they are, they’re bluish, not orange. This looked like normal fire. Except, well…but it didn’t say anything. In words, anyway. It sort of, I don’t know, grew and shrunk in size where it was, in response to what I did or said. Not flickering or something like that, but…”

“No, I think I understand.”

“I’m glad one of us do.”

That prompted a small smile on the lips of the blond. It was gone almost as soon as it had appeared, but it had been there. Then his expression turned thoughtful and puzzled instead.

“But why would…?” he muttered, looking down and away.

Then, suddenly, as if he in that moment remembered himself and where he was, he let go of Crowley’s hands and stepped back.

“You shouldn’t be here, Crowley,” he said, and Crowley might have said that he sounded at least a little bit wretched saying it. That was just as likely to be his wishful thinking, though.

“Why not?” he asked. Not particularly because he felt defiant, though partially because he felt bold and somewhat because he wanted to know his reasoning.

He knew all the reasons he had in his own mind, all the assumptions and such, but thinking about it, he wasn’t sure he’d heard it clearly from Aziraphale, and he needed to.

Need to?

Yes.

If he was to put this to rest once and for all, or alternatively have something to properly argue against so that maybe, just maybe could at least be a substitute for the one the angel really loved, then he needed to know why Aziraphale had left, in his own words, loud and clear and unequivocal.

Substitute? Fuck it all, he really was pathetic, wasn’t he? To be willing to be a substitute for someone just to be allowed close to the one he loved. Someone who’d been a demon, too. Had he really fallen that far?

_Don’t bloody well talk to me about Falling, sunshine. You don’t even know the half of it and you definitely don’t know the agonising pain of it. Nor what it’s like to be a demon._

Where had that come from? That and the other bit, too. It sounded like him – but not like his inner voice, which was part of him but sounded very different – and yet it was nothing like him. To the point that he was worried about his mental state.

Not that that was exactly something new, all things considered, but even so, this was…unsettling, to say the least.

It was one thing to think you were going barmy all on your own but knowing, still, that the one you were arguing with was yourself, and having a distinct if not entirely separate voice argue with you in your own head.

The latter was bound to send you to a psychiatric ward of some sort, wasn’t it?

And to top it all off, his head was now hurting, too. Not a splitting headache but something that made him a little dizzy and definitely made it harder to focus.

“Crowley?”

As he unintentionally tilted backwards a little to lean on the bookshelf behind him, he made a noise that could best be described as a heavy, ancient metal door scraping slowly across concrete, somewhere between a susurrating rasp and a groaning screech.

This wasn’t what he’d intended nor what he wanted. He hadn’t ever intended to come across as a weak, pathetic man to Aziraphale and yet that seemed all that he was capable of being in front of him.

No wonder, then, that he had left, huh? He didn’t even need to ask the question. It was overwhelmingly clear all on its own, wasn’t it?

“My dear, what’s the matter?”

He could feel that Aziraphale had stepped closer again and fancied that he could even feel the heat of his hand coming up towards him.

“Don’t,” he managed to rasp. His eyes had closed behind the sunglasses and he couldn’t bring himself to open them. The hand halted, or so he thought. “Don’t be kind to me if you don’t mean it.”

“Don’t mean it? I don’t think I follow.”

“If you don’t want me here…”

He had to pause to swallow a lump in his throat. It was quite the large lump.

“If you don’t want to see me, to have me be part of your, your life or even just like this, then that’s…that’s…” He had to swallow again as the lump made a valiant resurgence, “…but then I can’t cope if you’re also giving me small nuggets of kindness and caring like that, only to take it all away again.”

He wanted to bite through his lip and his tongue the moment the words were out of his mouth and at the same time, he felt some relief at it. That dual feeling only grew at the next words, but they slipped out before he could stop them.

“It hurts too much.”

It came out still raspy and small. He did manage to keep the tears in check, though, which he counted as a win. He’d take what he could get at this point.

“You think that I would – that I am being kind to hurt you deliberately…?” The angel sounded shocked, a little disbelieving and quite a bit crestfallen.

Crowley shook his head and forced himself to open his eyes and lift his head. He’d been right; Aziraphale had raised his hand and now it hung, frozen in that half-risen state. “Not deliberately, I know that. But the end result is the same and I can’t handle – that wasn’t why I came.”

Another thing that he hadn’t wanted to say, really, but then again, if he was going to do it, and it looked as though he was, then he might as well go the whole way, even if he couldn’t manage his usual sauntering walk.

He swallowed but did not lower his head.

Silence reigned between them for a moment that stretched into infinity.

“Then why_ did_ you come?” Aziraphale finally asked. It was quiet and though not exactly small, it sounded, well, _vulnerable_ in a way that Crowley didn’t think he’d heard before from the blond.

It made him want to wrap his arms around him and tell him that it’d be okay, somehow, though he had no idea how. Or drop to his knees and apologise again and again for being the cause of that.

“Truthfully?” he asked because it seemed that was all he had right now. Aziraphale nodded. “Because I needed to hear from your lips why you left, not half-explanations or assumptions, but your words. Honestly, without anything else.”

He sighed, though it sounded more pained than a sigh ought to. All cards on the table, eh? It wasn’t as though he could say anything to make it weirder, at least.

“And because a fire burning in my workshop that didn’t give off heat but seemed to respond to my questions gave me the impression, the distinct impression that I – “

And this was it, wasn’t it? The whole nub and crux of the matter, the reason why he’d come.

He wanted to backtrack. To not make it worse for himself than it already was, and it was hardly at a good place right then. Salvage whatever there was…

Except there wasn’t really anything, was there? Whatever he’d been deluding himself with during the time he’d been working himself so hard, to the point that he was wobbling even though he’d hardly been exerting himself physically during the search for the angel, there wasn’t much, if anything. Not to return to, anyway, quite apart from the state of things between the two of them. Or the non-state, perhaps was the better description.

Even if there was, something to go back to, something to salvage, he shouldn’t.

He’d come here for a resolution, one way or the other, and he would be damned – he ignored the very loud ‘hah!’ in the back of his mind, telling himself that he’d put off the psychiatrist for long enough as it was and would make an appointment the moment this was over – if he didn’t get it done.

“That I might just have a chance – that I was allowed to go and ask you for more. For perhaps – oh, fuck, this is – for you to, if it was just you and me, perhaps be able to consider…being with me. Romantically.”

As soon as the last word was out, he did close his eyes, not able to bear to look at the other. To see his expression shutter, become one of kind pity or mild disgust, or even just become entirely blank, so as not to let on what he was feeling…none of those were expressions that Crowley felt he could bear to see right now.

But he’d said it. Despite everything and after it all, he’d managed to say it. Clearly and unequivocally. Was that something he ought to be proud of, considering all that had gone before?

Perhaps. He didn’t feel particularly proud, however. All he could manage to feel was a sense of relief and even that was an island in a sea of dread and hollowness.

It would all be over now. Nothing to hide behind and no other excuses for why this couldn’t be.

Crowley would be told that it might not be they couldn’t, that they weren’t allowed, but that didn’t mean that Aziraphale wanted to. Not for the short term and most definitely not for the long term. Well, long term for Crowley, anyway. Human lives must seem like a blip on the radar for any immortal.

Yes, he’d said that he loved him, that day which felt so very long ago, but why exactly was that? Had it been for the sculptor’s benefit? Was it in an effort to be kind to him one last time before they parted ways forever? That seemed a bit excessive, he had to admit, but perhaps it made it easier for him to walk away? That he’d left him with something positive, at least, amidst all the hurt.

Or was it that he’d thought of the other Crowley? The ‘real’ Crowley, as it were. The one that wasn’t him.

That all he’d seen when he looked at the human was his perished…friend? Lover? Soulmate? Whichever it was, and it had been his memory, his ghost made flesh that he had been speaking to, not the man sitting in front of him. Saying what he hadn’t been able to or had the opportunity to say when they had last met, however long ago that might’ve been. Well, before he’d been born, obviously, but…

It was something that had crossed the sculptor’s mind before, too, which didn’t exactly make things better or easier to handle. Also, it soured the memories of their interactions since Aziraphale came to life, including the kisses, or at least turned them incredibly bittersweet.

Whatever way he looked at it, he couldn’t see how it was going to turn out well and he suddenly couldn’t help wondering why he had thought it a good idea to come here in the first place.

All it had done was bring attention to the fact that this wasn’t his to have and that he was a fool for wanting it, for pursuing it regardless of what he knew.

She might work in mysterious ways – and why did he want to say ‘ineffable’ instead? – but this didn’t feel mysterious as much as cruel. As if that wasn’t enough, it felt as though it was for nothing but the sake of it.

He sagged a little further against the bookshelf but not so much that he was in danger of ruining any books. Something in him warned him very strongly against doing that.

What he wanted to do was sag all the way down to the floor. Preferably, he’d sink all the way into a black hole of oblivion and never be heard from again. Even he recognised that as a tad overdramatic in the circumstances, without the need for his inner voice to make any comment about it first. That didn’t stop the feeling from being present, however.

But what he ought to do, what would be the smart thing, was to stand up straight, square his shoulders and take the rejection, because surely there could be no other outcome, not really, with…well, perhaps not head held high, exactly, but with as much dignity as he had left and walk out of the shop.

Perhaps even say something like ‘thank you’ or a kind ‘goodbye’ as he left, though he wasn’t sure his voice would cooperate.

Right. He could do that. Of course, he could do that. He just needed a moment for his chest not to feel like he’d accidentally landed in a cider press on its final squeeze and his eyes to stop stinging as though he was walking through a sandstorm.

Only a moment. Just a little moment and he would be good to –

A finger brushed against his cheek, lightly and upwards, until it was at the corner of his eye.

Wait, when had his glasses been taken off?

He kept his eyes shut, though, regardless.

There the angel went again, being kind to him when he was about to take it all away. Tell him that either it didn’t matter that there was no barrier, nobody that disapproved, he had just been kind to him or that he couldn’t bear to look at him and be reminded of the one he’d lost.

It was probably impossible for him not to be kind. That was it. He didn’t truly mean it; it was just in his nature and he could do nothing about it. A being of love, wasn’t that what his mother had called them once upon a time?

Another tear escaped.

Pathetic, clingy matchstick man without a life. How could you think that a being like that could think to love _you_? The closest he could ever possibly get to loving you would be because of the one you happen to look like – and share a name with.

Did that make the joke more or less cruel?

Knowing that he was going in circles in his mind didn’t help. Nor did the fact that his inner voice was strangely quiet and had been for a –

He barely registered the hand cupping his cheek for a moment before lips pressed to his.

It was gentle and soft. Careful but not hesitant.

One might even go as far as to call it loving. He wanted to melt into it, lose himself in the feel of it completely. To believe that this was or could be his, with no strings attached.

It wasn’t enough. It was far too much.

Another instance of Aziraphale giving him just a hint of kindness, of what he so deeply wanted, perhaps even beyond himself, only to snatch it away from him.

It was a mockery.

He therefore pulled back immediately. Well, almost immediately, as he wasn’t quite able to not give into it for a moment or two. But he did pull back.

Aziraphale looked at him, confusion written on his face.

“I said ‘don’t’,” Crowley said, and it was a definite snap this time. Not quite a snarl, not yet, but he definitely felt anger stirring in amongst the misery. “I didn’t think you’d be…be cruel like that.”

“Oh, and you don’t think it is cruel to show up here out of the blue?” There was a snap in the angel’s voice, too, and while it was unexpected, it didn’t make Crowley back down.

“You could’ve thrown me out the moment you saw if that was the case! Or kept me from entering in the first place, whatever!” Something hit him about that sentence, too. “And it’d only be remotely cruel, anyway, if you actually felt anything!”

“Of course, I feel something, Crowley, you, you,” it was clear that he was searching for the right word and struggling to find it, “silly fool! Do you think I would’ve risked all that I have risked if I didn’t? That I would have walked away?”

“Yes! Why the bloody else would you have walked away?”

Crowley’s temper was only rising, spurred on a little by the, admittedly rather mild, name-calling. That was rarely a good sign, to say the least, but he couldn’t deny that it felt better than the despair and hurt from before. Neither of those was gone, of course, but the anger had taken the driving seat.

“If you felt something, _feel _something, for me it makes no sense that you would walk away like that! Not if you being allowed to, to feel something for me, on a personal level, doesn’t make a difference to you!”

Something sparked in the blue eyes at that, deep in their depths, a flame of something that again flashed an image of a burning sword and someone who knew how to wield it through Crowley’s mind.

A part of him wanted to take a step back, but he forced it down, and not only because he couldn’t actually go further back.

The voice of the blond, however, was only a little bit higher in volume but somehow, that didn’t really matter.

“Doesn’t make a difference?” the angel said and though he was technically a few inches shorter than Crowley, he somehow managed to loom just a little. “Whoever said that it doesn’t make a difference? How dare you even _suggest_ that it doesn’t make a difference?”

He didn’t grab the ginger by the collar or anything but somehow, he didn’t need to in order to obtain the effect.

When did Aziraphale become – oh, but he’d seen that before, hadn’t he? When he’d confronted Gabriel. It had been quieter, then, not quite as emotional, if he could put it like that, and it hadn’t been directed towards Crowley, but it had had the same energy.

To be on the business end of that energy, though, that was something else entirely and he wasn’t quite sure how to feel about it.

It didn’t quell his anger, though, nor the other emotions, only added confusion to the already full stew.

“If it does make a difference, then why did you – “

“I kissed you the moment you told me the whole story, didn’t I?” Aziraphale said and it was almost a growl at that point. One that was spoken only a few inches from the sculptor’s face. “The moment I knew that – “

“But _why_?”

“Why? Why do you think?”

“That’s what I don’t know!” Crowley replied and it was a shout. Not of anger, though. It probably ought to have been, all things considered, but all it held was pain and a by that point rather desperate hope to understand.

He just wanted to at least understand. Nothing made sense and everything hurt and all he wanted to do was to understand.

_Not quite all you want to do, is it?_

No, far from it. obviously. But since he couldn’t even manage understanding what was going on, it seemed, aiming higher was pushing it too far by half.

“I don’t know,” he repeated, far more quietly and he knew that he sounded wretched. Didn’t mean he could stop it. “The only reason I can think of doesn’t make sense when I think of the rest of it and I don’t…”

His eyes closed, on their own, but he forced them open.

He couldn’t force his mouth to say anything more though; his throat seemed to have given up the ghost, at least for the moment, and had constricted on him.

Aziraphale stared at him, though possibly it was closer to a glare. After a moment or two, however, it softened and lost its angry edge. In its place was…not pity but sympathy.

“Oh, my dear…” he whispered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Was this an odd place to cut it?  
A bit more...angsty than I was expecting it to be, honestly, but it didn't feel like it could any other way and besides, I can say that for this whole story, really.  
Hope this wasn't too bad a chapter, though, even though there was no kissing or falling into the other's arms. At least they're trying.


	16. Can you be mine?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Truths come to light as proper communication finally happens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Three weeks isn't too bad, is it? I do try, at least, and I thought this would be appropriate to update on my second birthday. Thank you so, so much, everyone, for your understanding and support, it has meant *the world*. <3

He brought a hand up again and brushed it against Crowley’s cheek. The ginger flinched a little at the gesture but didn’t protest.

The hand dropped away.

“I am sorry that I didn’t…of course I should’ve said something instead of merely assuming that…”

Aziraphale trailed off, frowning, his lips tightly pursed in pained contemplation as he looked away.

“What did you mean when you said the only reason you could think of didn’t make sense?” he asked after a long moment. The question was spoken quite softly.

It took a few tries to get his throat to work, but Crowley finally managed to say, “I can’t…it won’t formulate properly into words but…but if you really needed permission, then I don’t understand why you didn’t ask it straight away. And if you didn’t want to ask it, then it’s not really anything to do with permission. Then it’s just an excuse to…”

He had to struggle with his throat again, as it tightened on him quite significantly. Just thinking about it was difficult enough, never mind putting it into even a semblance of words, and that wasn’t accounting for the emotions.

Aziraphale waited, a complicated expression that the ginger couldn’t decipher on his face, relatively patiently while Crowley wrested the reins back at least somewhat.

Not that he particularly wanted to continue; the feeling that he was only digging a hole deeper and deeper for himself was present and what was more, that hole was filling up with water.

Well, if he was doing to drown…

_Go with style, eh?_

Bloody well right.

“Even if it wasn’t…” he began again, anger helping him push through the throat issues, “even if you did and it wasn’t an excuse. If you meant it all, then it still doesn’t matter because – because it isn’t me you want to be with in the first place!”

He didn’t spit the last bit, though it was tempting to do so. It didn’t come out defeated, either, though, which he was oddly proud of.

Nevertheless, Aziraphale took a small step backwards, the confusion on his face growing to push aside some of the other emotions on his face, though they kept vying for space.

“Not you who – What the…what on earth do you mean? Who else would it be? Who else _could_ it be?”

There was a hint of anger there, again, too, and not one born of guilt. Anger born of guilt has a nasty, yellowish tint to it spikiness, as though striking first will annul the guilt or at least render it immaterial in the wake of what happens next.

This was anger born of confusion and more than a bit of hurt.

“The real me – that is, the real Crowley. The demon, the one you’ve clearly known and loved for absolute ages. That’s who you love and who you want to be with, in a romantic sense.”

The anger was now banked and smouldering, encircling the ginger’s own broken heart like a mother snake coiled protectively around her eggs, ready to strike at anyone who dared come close.

“Not _me_, not the actual pathetic human being that is me.” He wanted to glare at the other but decided to turn his eyes upwards instead. The ceiling was safer to look at.

He could hear Aziraphale make a noise, as though he was about to protest. What good was that, though? It would just be an excuse, towards either of the things, the accusations, or maybe even both. Kind but ultimately cruel.

“What you see when you look at me isn’t actually me, is it?” he continued, voice quiet but slowly losing whatever emotion it might’ve held to…nothing, really. “It’s him, or a ghost of him, anyway.”

“Crowley…”

“You knew my name straight away, too,” Crowley ploughed on, either not hearing or otherwise ignoring Aziraphale trying to get through to him. “Suppose I should’ve seen it at that point already. That it wasn’t really me you were reacting to, but him. Who I used to be, is that it? That was why you were so keen to protect me when Gabriel was trying to get at me, wasn’t it? Because attacking me was attacking him and that wouldn’t do.”

He huffed a weak laugh, still staring upwards, the words now more or less just thoughts voiced as they came. “Makes sense with the all name-calling, then, especially ‘demon’ and all. Didn’t want to believe it, don’t know why, it seems so bleeding obvious in hindsight. That why I got stuck with these bleeding cat eyes? It’s why you’ve felt you needed permission from Her, too, I suppose, even though I’m not him.”

His head dropped down again, but he didn’t look at Aziraphale at any point. He couldn’t right now. If he did, he might end up clinging to him, refusing to let go.

Pride was a train that had left the station long ago and dignity a branch line station forgotten by time. Even so, he could aim for not letting Aziraphale hate him. Too much, at any rate.

“That’s the point, though, isn’t it?” It came out almost as a whisper. “I’m not him and I never will be. I’ll only ever look like him and share his name, for some goddamn reason.”

He didn’t register that Aziraphale didn’t correct him or admonish him for his blasphemy, even though it would only make sense that he would. Or wouldn’t.

“I’m not…and that’s why it won’t ever be me you love. Even if there wasn’t the rest of it, which there is, there’ll always be that.”

He swallowed once again, the lump almost burning in its acidity and associated idiocy. Never should he have come here.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

What he expected to happen after that, he couldn’t have told anyone who might’ve asked. Possibly he didn’t expect anything. Not so much because it had turned out strange, but because it had not turned out either as he hoped or as he had expected. Instead, he was caught in a sort of limbo, one that it felt there was no respite from. Ever.

Not realising he was trembling until he was gently pried from the bookshelf without a word, he then prepared to be sent on his way.

Perhaps Aziraphale would be ‘kind’ yet again and send him away without a word. Make it as silent and painless, for a very given value of ‘painless’, as possible for the both of them.

That would make some sort of sense, at least.

So, when he instead was drawn into the arms of the angel, carefully and gently but without any hesitation on Aziraphale’s part, the surprise was so great, or perhaps he was just so drained at that point, that he didn’t have the mental wherewithal to fight it.

“I’m so sorry, my dear,” Aziraphale said and while his voice was still soft, it was at the same time sure and determined in a way that it hadn’t been in the entire conversation. Anger or retaliation didn’t count in that context.

His arms cradled the taller, lankier body, somehow managing to wrap him fairly well even with his stockier, shorter frame and arms. What he did not do, a small part of Crowley couldn’t help but notice, was try to kiss him or otherwise ingratiate himself, if you could call it that, like he tried before.

It probably shouldn’t have mattered, but it somehow did, even if just a little.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated, “I didn’t realise that you were struggling with all of those concerns though of course I should have. I should’ve noticed.”

Once Crowley recovered just a little from the shock, he tried to pull back, pull out of the embrace entirely.

_Killing me with kindness…_

Aziraphale held firm, though, and prevented him from doing so, even when he strengthened his efforts.

“Please, my dear, give me a moment to at least try and explain. I know I do not deserve that, not after everything, but I should be incredibly, eternally grateful if you would grant me that moment.”

The sculptor held still at that but only in the sense that he ceased trying to get out of the embrace. He didn’t return the touch at all, even though he very much wanted to.

The blond sighed, though whether it was one of relief wasn’t entirely clear.

“I should’ve been much…no, I should’ve done this all differently, shouldn’t I? From the very start, I’ve messed this up entirely. Let assumptions and my…better judgment, or so I thought, forge the path for not just me but the both of us. Without consulting you on the subject.”

The hold tightened for just a moment before Aziraphale evidently remembered the situation. “That was wrong of me. Very wrong and I apologise.”

He pulled back so that he could look into the unique eyes that he’d always been so very fond of.

“I did very much worry about what the reaction from, from upstairs, might be, yes, but not because of me. Because of you.”

Crowley didn’t answer verbally but his involuntary, questioning frown said a lot, nevertheless.

The angel smiled at that, but it was one completely without humour.

“They might not take too kindly to you in Heaven, for reasons that are obvious and ridiculous, as you saw with Gabriel. But that is nothing to what will await you should you die and end up in Hell.”

His face drew together in a consternated, somewhat guilty expression.

“I could not have that. Couldn’t risk contributing to that danger – and it would, if nothing else because of Gabriel’s…pettiness. It might still, honestly, but if you have indeed been given a visit that indicates…and there is no reason to doubt you, none at all, then that risk is greatly diminished if not outright gone.”

He paused, looking away, and the sigh he let out was shaky.

“I only ever wanted what would be best for you and I couldn’t see how forcing myself unto you – “

Wait, what?

“– like that, my feelings and desires…my selfishness. Yes, that’s the word for it. The selfishness of my love, which would hardly be what’s best for you.”

Though it was evidently difficult, he looked back at the taller man. “You have been given another chance by being human, and I was, and am, afraid of spoiling that for you.”

“Isn’t that something I should get to decide myself?” Though he ought to be livid, really, he knew, at the implications of that statement, Crowley could only manage to be angry and indignant. “If I end up in Hell, then that’s my choice. Not that Heaven sounds all that much better, if Gabriel’s anything to go by.”

“You really ought not judge – “

“Shouldn’t I? An Archangel isn’t enough of an indicator of how the whole structure is, is that it? But that aside, how are you better suited to deciding how much life should turn out than me?”

Again, what might’ve come out angry for someone else or for him at another time, was quite severely muted at that time. More of a snap than an outright snarl.

Despite that, Aziraphale now looked unquestionably guilty as well as rather shamed, his shoulders hunching slightly in lieu of hanging his head.

“I’m not. I know that, and I know that it was wrong of me. At the same time, I couldn’t see how being tied down to an angel…no, being tied to_ me_ could be beneficial to you at all.”

There were implications in that statement that Crowley sensed had some very deeply planted and painful roots and stems and in general, was something that was best left alone. At least for now.

_Now is all you’re going to get, remember? _His inner voice piping up was almost a welcome relief at this point. And yes, he did remember.

He opened his mouth to say something, he didn’t quite know what yet. Before he could, however, Aziraphale continued.

It seemed Crowley wasn’t the only one who needed to get something off their chest.

“There’s the power imbalance, for…well, I’d be afraid to take advantage of you. Not even for purely that, either, I – “

He paused again then sighed, moisture clear in his eyes even as he looked away.

“You’re right. I do see the Crowley that I knew, the demon Crowley, when I look at you,” he admitted and it was only because Crowley’s heart was at the very bottom of his stomach already that it did not sink any lower. There was nowhere left for it to go. “How could I not?”

“Yeah, I figured as much,” Crowley murmured, not bothering to hide the pain evident in his voice. There seemed little point. “Glad you were honest about it, at least, that...”

He trailed off as he tried to pull free again, even if it was considerably gentler this time.

Yes, so he was willing, or at least some part of him was, to be a substitute for the real Crowley if that’s what it took to be close to Aziraphale, romantically or not. That didn’t mean he was okay with it or that it didn’t hurt, and hurt a bloody lot as well, to have it confirmed like that.

Just because he’d known didn’t mean it wasn’t painful to _know._

Aziraphale did loosen his grip a little, but he didn’t let go entirely. His expression certainly grew more a little more intense and more…not pleading, but certainly imploring.

“Crowley, please, listen. I’m sorry, that wasn’t very well phrased. That is…just because I see him does not mean I do not see you. I see you both because to me, you are the same.”

Crowley couldn’t help it; he snorted in disbelief. Of all the things to try and make him believe, that was a bit much, just a bit beyond the pale. Why it was that specific thing, out of all of them, that felt that way, or at least felt the most that way, he couldn’t say.

“You are,” the angel insisted, his tone as imploring as his expression. “You are _you_, my dearest, through and through no matter what, and I love you regardless. I have for so very long and I will forever.”

That statement made Crowley’s heart rise, but he halted it on the way. There was no need to get his hopes up unduly, even if he couldn’t blame it.

“That’s because you’re only seeing what you want to see. You don’t know me. I wish you did, but if I have to be honest, that was probably only ever a fool’s dream.” He smiled, more than a little self-deprecatingly. “Fitting, eh?”

Something flashed through those blue eyes at that, but it wasn’t as dangerous or as strong as the previous one and he evidently managed to push it down.

“Do you think I only inhabited the statue shortly before I could become a living, breathing entity again?” he said and while his voice remained gentle, there was just the hint of steel to be heard. “Then you are sorely mistaken. I was in there the entire time you were sculpting the statue.”

“What?”

The instinctual, human horror at the implications must’ve shown clearly on his face because Aziraphale’s expression softened.

“I’m an angel, dear. I do not technically need to eat or sleep or even breathe. But that meant I got a chance to see you. You, working hard, muttering to yourself, working out issues and dreaming up new ideas. Bringing home groceries, staggering until you’ve had that first cup of coffee and generally living your life. Being you. Not someone else, just you.”

He brought one hand up and was about to place it on the other’s bony cheek but hesitated. Still debating with himself as he did it and not reaching a definitive conclusion, Crowley closed the distance, still keeping eye contact.

“And yet, I could still see _so much_ of who I once knew inside of you, to the point that I wondered whether you had in fact – but that’s not the point. The point is that while you are very much who you used to be, you are also entirely you and both made my heart ache with the love I felt for you. Feel for you.”

It might’ve sounded mushy or unbelievable in its sappiness. Maybe just unbelievable full stop, because it sounded too much like what Crowley so wanted to hear.

Except, if it had only been what he wanted to hear, it could’ve been a lot shorter and to the point. Probably could’ve done with leaving out a thing or two, really.

This amount of talk, of explanation, in combination with what he clearly saw in those blue eyes – which wasn’t even something he was unsure of, however much his brain tried to second-guess it – did make it far more believable. At least for the sculptor.

In that spirit, he took a breath, deep and somehow feeling as though he’d stepped into icy conditions. Then he bent his head, knowing that he was almost invariably going to regret this when it went tits up, just a little and pressed his lips gingerly against those of the blond.

Who pressed back immediately, though he kept it careful and chaste.

It was Aziraphale who drew back, too, after only a few moments.

“Crowley, I – you honestly shouldn’t feel obligated to – “

“What part of – after everything? Really? After everything I just said, all that I confessed to, you think I would do that out of a sense of bleeding obligation?”

Aziraphale opened his mouth, then thought better of it.

“I love you, too, Aziraphale,” he said and though it felt somewhat weird to voice it, it also somehow felt liberating, odd as that was to say. “Even though I don’t know that much about you and think that some of it might just be the, the other me – does that even make sense? – influencing me a little, I know that I do.”

After having left his arms deliberately immobile for as long as he’d been embraced, Crowley brought them up at last and wrapped them, not around the other’s waist or even his back. Instead, he chose to wrap them around his neck.

“If I’m allowed to make this decision…if you don’t mind being with me, a human sculptor who’s a workaholic and have...” No, he was pathetic enough as it was, there was no need to go admitting to something like that, especially not at this stage, “…then I want to spend all the time I have left on this earth with you.”

Aziraphale’s arm still around him tightened but this time, Crowley was grateful for it.

“Even with…with all the differences? No, not even – with the risk that you will not get into Heaven once you die?”

“Because I was in a relationship with an angel before I died? Endorsed or not, I’m going to take that risk and it is my risk to take, too, not yours to decide whether I’m allowed to take.”

He couldn’t help the small, mainly humourless smile. “If I understand things correctly, there are so many ways you can fail in having a full get-into-Heaven card, or even a half-filled one, that I’ve probably already screwed my chances long ago.”

“Crowley…”

“It’s fine.”

“It’s not. It most definitely is not! to think of what other…what the demons would do to you if your soul was sent to Hell after you died, knowing that you’d been granted a chance at salvation through becoming a human, not to mention everything else – “

“Wait, what do you mean, ‘everything else’?”

Aziraphale hesitated, clearly not too keen on telling him. Then he sighed, heavily and painfully.

“That is quite the long story, I’m afraid, and most of it will be quite rough to get through, to say the least.”

And to be fair to him, it did look as though it was something that hurt significantly to even think about. That was possibly even underselling it, really.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have – “Crowley began, feeling a shot of guilt at having mentioned it at all.

“Oh, no. You absolutely should.” It was Aziraphale’s turn to smile without much, if any humour. “It is your history as much as anything, after all. But perhaps we could postpone the telling of it to a later date.”

That suggestion, that indication that he thought of a ‘later date’ between them and did it with such…not exactly casualness, but relatively relaxed certainty, at least, did quite a bit on its own to make the ginger not just relax a little but actively believe in it.

“But the point is that Hell is not an option for you, my dearest – “

“If the other option is a life without you, though, I can’t see how that’s much better,” Crowley said, quickly, his voice something of a snapping growl.

Aziraphale’s eyes widened at that and his cheeks coloured just a little.

He did not do anything to deny it or try to talk the other out of such a thought, however.

“I, well…that is…” the angel started and then trailed off.

Crowley let the silent build between them for a long minute, mainly because he was thinking of something.

Well, they’d come this far, hadn’t they? He could be brave, couldn’t he?

_You’ve been brave before now, though whether that’s more stupidity than bravery isn’t entirely clear. Probably more the former._

So, with that one thought in mind and firmly ignoring the other, he pulled away from the embrace slightly, noting that he wasn’t attempted stopped this time.

“Aziraphale, would…would you go out with me?” he asked.

He felt ridiculous the moment the words were out of his mouth. Why did he phrase it like that? Like he was some sort of 50s teen asking out their very first crush.

Granted, there was something old-fashioned about the angel, apart from the obvious, but that didn’t extend to Crowley, did it? He was, being a demon notwithstanding, or having been a demon or whatever, a modern person.

And yet…none of the other options he could think of felt significantly better, if better at all. Everything sounded silly and inappropriate. Insufficient to cover what he meant, trivialising the matter.

Even so, he had to try.

“Ehm, that is, I meant – would you be with me? I mean – “

It seemed that Aziraphale wasn’t as bothered by the phrasing as Crowley was, though, and certainly wasn’t put off by it.

He positively beamed as Crowley asked the question. There was no other word for it and it somehow only turned up a notch or two as the ginger tried again.

“Yes,” he said. The sheer weight of the emotions piling up behind and into that one word, crowding it until it seemed impossible it could contain even half, made it so much more than a simple, one-syllable word.

“Yes,” he repeated, “yes, my dearest, I would. I would like nothing more in the world than to have you with me and be with me - in whatever capacity you would be comfortable with, of course.”

He obviously hastened to add that last bit, which was not just odd but said a lot on its own.

Crowley blinked and frowned in incomprehension, which then became a frown of consternation. He leaned in so he could whisper directly into the ear of the blond.

“If that’s the case, I think we might go a good deal beyond what’s considered acceptable for an angel,” Crowley said.

After a moment, he added, “Seriously, though, I’m ‘comfortable’ with everything, okay? I’m not…I’ve never been terribly good at only being attracted to one gender and I’ve tried a lot of different things over the years. It’s more you we need to worry about in that context, if we need to worry at all.”

He didn’t mention that he cared more about people being willing to be with him at all than gender. If he liked them, physically and otherwise, and they reciprocated, then that was all that mattered.

“We don’t,” Aziraphale assured him. “So long as it’s with you, I’m more than willing. So long as we’re…together.”

“Yes,” Crowley agreed and sealed the agreement, the promise, with a kiss. One that was long and passionate, yet tender.

Loving.

And even though the worries flocked around them like crows around a carcass or journalists around a scandal, with a reality or two hovering ominously overhead, for now they pushed it all away.

For now, they were together and that was all that mattered. Many of their fears would come true, reality would swoop in, but not just yet.

For now, they could be happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Were you surprised? I was surprised...twice over, really. This wrapped itself up in a way that felt wrong to continue, somehow, and this whole story has been a continuous surprise for me as I've written it. I had intended something else when I started but I'm...despite all the nerves, I'm quite happy with this, bittersweet though the ending possibly is.  
I'm sorry this is the end, though, for more than one reason, and that I haven't warned you.  
I could do a separate instalment for some smut, if it feels like I've cheated you out of that with this ending.  
Thank you to everyone who has followed this story and given me feedback. It's been brilliant and wonderful and greatly loved, and I shall miss you all. :)

**Author's Note:**

> I have to admit, this was more difficult to write than I ever would've imagined, mostly because I've been unsure of Crowley in this, both because his backstory is obviously so different and he doesn't yet have Aziraphale to bounce off of, as it were. I hope he isn't too horribly off - and that Gabriel is fairly believable, too.
> 
> Feedback is loved and treasured if you would be kind enough to keep your criticism constructive.


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